


Sass-Badger Versus Son-of-No-One

by Cards_Slash



Series: Sass Verse [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Blogging, F/M, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-31
Updated: 2015-12-31
Packaged: 2018-03-04 13:43:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 75
Words: 624,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3070346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cards_Slash/pseuds/Cards_Slash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik did not hate Altair because he was rich, handsome, famous (for nothing), athletic or apparently charming (to women). No, Malik hated Altair because he was a sexist pig with a perpetual audience that was influencing a whole generation of tweens to think it was perfectly okay to say whatever dick thing came into their heads. That was why he started his blog; he just didn’t count on Altair finding it or becoming it’s number one fan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I deleted the whole damn story by accident. can't figure out how to get it back. excuse me while i throw myself off a cliff. Goddamn it.

> _At this point if you’re not dead, you might want to wait until after eight to come home._

Malik was woken up by the polite-but-insistent knocking on the door that sounded hollow and distant when it drove through his swollen skull. There was gritty, thick _crud_ at the edges of his mouth and a distinct pain at the base of his neck when he moved his arm in a wild flail toward the noise. He had (mostly) given up begging for a few more minutes of sleep when he started high school but now and again, (when he felt like he was dying) he was known to whine, “just five more minutes.”

There was a metallic clank-and-grate and then footsteps that stopped not too far from his left. A woman was standing there wearing a suit jacket with red detailing that looked remarkably unlike anything his mother had ever worn. There was a slight, pronounced, sympathy in her face as she said, “I’m sorry sir, check out was at eleven.”

Opening his eyes completely drove stakes through his skull that rattled in loose, broken pieces in the space where his brain had apparently fled. He shot upright (wished he hadn’t) and then doubled over as a surge of vomit rose in his throat. The woman (still unnamed) was quick with a black wastebasket. He grabbed it out of her hands and heaved the entire contents of his stomach (a terrible smelling liquid mess). After she was standing a polite distance away looking at the state of the room around them. At his pants thrown across the TV, at the empty bottle of (was that Vodka?) and an assortment of empty wrappers thrown carelessly around the room. The sheets and blankets of the second bed in the room were torn back and left on the floor and the remains of what (looked like) a pizza were smeared across the sheet and pillows. 

“Sir,” she said again. And she plucked his shirt down from the curtains and held it out toward him. “I need you to gather your things.” Malik clutched at his vomit-filled wastebasket with one arm and reached out to accept his shirt from her. His face had to have been a violent purple-red color because her look of careful disinterest got a little green at the edges as she said (very softly), “are you okay? Do you remember what happened?”

(Oh, but she thought he’d been roofied.) He nodded his head (but he didn’t remember) and tried to summon up enough of his scattered brains to work out a thank-you and failed. 

Her sympathy was maternal and brief before she said, “do not make this a habit in your life.” Then she was leaving with a smart click of her heels.

Malik sat there (dumb with shock) for a span of several minutes, realized he was holding a basket full of puke and set it down on the floor as he fell out of bed in an attempt to disentangle himself from the blankets. His head was _throbbing_ and his mouth tasted like _bile_ and his legs were protesting _wildly_ with a twinge in the back of his thigh that knocked his stride off balance. He made it to the bathroom, squinting at the overwhelming lights and found his socks floating in the toilet (gave them up for lost but removed them before he flushed). Every towel in the little bathroom was in the tub, bloated with water and there was a slice of pizza (most disintegrated) resting on top of it with a long blue ribbon floating in the puddle still caught in the tub. Malik pulled at it, dislodged the washcloth keeping the tub from draining and had to fight with a towel that was wrapped around the ribbon before discovering it was a medal. One of the medals that the prom committee had come up with as extraneous awards separate from King-and-Queen. 

Malik stood in front of the massive mirror, looking at the medal and his aching body. Suddenly aware of the bruised-in-hickey at his throat, the little marks and scratches at his hips and the damning slickness all but literally coating his ass and thighs. 

“Oh fuck,” he said to the mirror, to the stupid medal, to himself. And then reality hit like a punch to his gut because it was (after eleven,) the day after he was supposed to be home. He had gotten _drunk_ , followed (someone) to this stupid hotel and gotten fucked. His mother, his patient-and-kind-and-devout-mother was going to murder him in the name of honor and mercy. 

Malik left the stupid ribbon on the floor where he dropped it, grabbed what he could find of his clothes and yanked them on with a fumble-fingered-carelessness. His head was _throbbing_ freshly every single time the sunlight stabbed into his eyes. His stomach was curling up with fresh threats at every movement of his body. He had to crawl on the floor to find his second shoe and his suit jacket was in the closet hanging on a hanger next to his belt. His phone was in one of the dresser drawers along with an open box of condoms and a shamefully empty bottle of lube. (There was that much, at least, to be thankful for.) 

He grabbed his phone and _ran_. The woman who invaded his room was behind the desk when he darted through the lobby and her voice wished him well as he ran out into the parking lot and kept _going_. He didn’t stop running until he’d found himself on the corner of Parke and Hills and couldn’t contain the urge to puke another second.

When he’d finished defiling a bush, he checked the messages on his phone and found a steadily increasing stream of worry from his baby brother that reached a fever point at one AM the night before. His Mother called-didn’t-text and she had only called once at two AM and left no message. Malik’s hands were shaking as he tucked the phone back into his pocket and took in a deep enough breath to figure out how to get home from where he was.

\--

> ### Breaking News at 11: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad _still_ an ignorant asshole
> 
> True to form, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, not even a full fourteen hours after attending a prom at Castle-Mount High School, manages to spread ill-informed, bigoted and generally offensive opinions and advice to anyone that will listen. The prom that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad attended, most likely as a publicity stunt, had made local headlines for the progressive attitude of the students and faculty alike. This was the first prom for Castle-Mount High School that openly welcomed students of every sexual orientation to attend with a date of their choosing. The imminent Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad announced that he would attend the prom with a close friend (read: friend’s younger sister who seemed less than thrilled when interviewed) purportedly at her request. While this stunt, like many of the other juvenile stunts pulled just this year, was exploitative, attention-seeking and vaguely inappropriate (please Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, as you have just turned twenty, refrain from attending parties primarily populated by seventeen and eighteen year olds that have not yet technically graduated high school) it was ultimately rather harmless. Unsatisfied by the lack of attention this ‘favor’ garnered, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad resorted to characteristic ignorance with a stunning display of homophobia. And I quote,
> 
> “ _It was kind of uncomfortable, the experience I mean. My family doesn’t believe in that kind of thing, you know? I mean, it’s fine if you think you’re gay or if you want to date a girl or something. It’s just not something I would do. There were just so many guys, you know, dancing with other guys. Where were all the ladies?_ ”
> 
> Possibly, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad since your own date did not even want to spend time with you, they felt as if you simply weren’t worth their notice.

\--

“Well,” Kadar said quietly. The one thing he had learned about living with Malik (the whole of his life) was that in the face of bitter vitriol (especially the written sort) one should choose their words with the greatest of care. It wasn’t often that Kadar—terribly unworthy younger brother that he was—got invited into the inner sanctum of Malik’s room or was encouraged (forced) to read yet another one of his angry posts on the internet. Much less often was he invited to join in the ground floor of a one man protest against a mostly uninteresting semi-celebrity. Much less often—almost never—had his brother disobeyed their mother, come home hung-over wearing someone else’s shirt, looking decidedly disgusted with himself and said nothing at all in the way of a greeting before taking a shower that went on for nearly an hour. Rarely (but not as infrequently as Malik disobeying their mother) did Malik bother to watch the sort of nonsense TV that Kadar enjoyed but he (almost always) did get angry about stupid crap celebrities said. It wasn’t always _this_ level of anger though. Malik’s whole body had clenched up in shock and bitter, stunted fury as soon as Altair Ibn-La’Ahad (really, barely even worth noticing as far as celebrities went) had shown his face on the TV. “It’s…to the point.” 

Malik was sitting in the computer chair with it tipped all the way back and his hand curled around the arm rests like some massive, unhappy bird of prey. The tight pinch in the center of his face that he had come home with tightened just a little further and seemed to run ever so slightly to the left. His eyes (still weak, watery and pinkish) were narrowed and glaring intently at the screen. He was chewing on his bottom lip in a way that meant nothing good. “What does that even mean?” Malik demanded.

“That means if you wanted people to know you hate the guy, I think they’ll pick up on it. What the hell did he even do? Did he spit in your drink? Did he call you names? Did he spike the punch?” The last option was possibly the worst he could think of considering Malik’s sole goal in going to prom (against his own wishes) was to be sure that nobody spiked the punch. He had appointed himself the guardian of the punch but going by all the classic signs of a hangover hanging around his head he’d either failed or decided to purposefully drink. (The very thought of Malik chugging any kind of alcohol was so opposite of everything Kadar believed in that it was nearly unthinkable.) “Is that why you didn’t come home? Did he spike the punch?”

“The problem is that he’s a role model for idiot tweens like you and he’s just saying whatever comes into his stupid head,” Malik said. “You heard him, I played you the interview. At some point he needs to be held accountable for what he’s saying. This isn’t the nineteen hundreds anymore! Some people are gay and want equal rights.” 

Kadar nodded his head. “So he didn’t do anything to you personally?”

“No,” Malik snapped at him. “He offends me on a purely moral level.”

“Well, it’s good then. It’s full of moral righteousness. Not that it’s going to do you any good because Mom’s going to ground you forever as soon as she gets home.” Kadar picked up his drink off Malik’s desk and kicked the stool he had been sitting back against the bookshelf on the opposite wall. 

Malik obviously did not care. He had dug his heels into the rug under his chair and pulled himself back up to his desk before Kadar even finished moving out of the way. “I need a screen name.”

“Why can’t you just post this on your blog? The—king of whatever one that you have. Or that other one that you started a few months ago. Zombie chicken feet or something like that. What was that one about? Fertilizer?”

Malik spun in his chair to look at him. “Because people know that those are my blogs.”

“Like, six people.” This bit of humor did not amuse his brother.

“Nobody can know that this one is me,” Malik said with absolute seriousness. His faded blue shirt and his pink (a gag gift from a friend) socks undermined the determined and deadly look on his face but the tone of his voice had enough edge to make up for it. “I mean it, Kadar. You can’t tell anyone about this. Not your friends, not Mom, not some girl you’re trying to impress into making out with you.”

That had been one time when Kadar was eleven and Malik’s ability to use a computer with competency had still been vaguely unique and noteworthy. Telling some girl that his brother ran a bunch of blogs protesting pollution and social injustice barely earned him enough interest to finish the sentence. “Fine,” he said.

“Promise,” Malik insisted.

“I promise I won’t tell anyone about your crusade against Altair. It’ll be our dirty little secret.” For the six months it took Malik to get bored and move on to a target more worthy of his attention. If this one lasted that long in the face of graduation and the impending start of college. “But if you actually get anyone to read this nonsense, let me know because at least the comments might be funny.”

Malik did not appreciate this. “I need a screen name.” Before Kadar could even think of something to suggest Malik was saying, “I need a screen name that could be for a man or woman and that does not sound like something I would come up with.”

“Why do you—”

“Name,” Malik said again.

Kadar growled at him. “Badger,” he said. “Because you’re so foul tempered even lions are afraid of you.”

Malik did not even care about the insult. “Badger is already taken. I need something better than _badger_. What kind of a suggestion is badger?”

“I’m a sarcastic jerk that doesn’t appreciate my brother’s attempts to help me?” Kadar offered. Then he pulled open the door to leave. “You better think of something before Mom gets home and grounds you for the rest of your life.”

“Get out,” Malik said, “close my door.”

\--

Son-of-no-One: ’Longest night of my life. #too many dicks on the dance floor’ (35m ago)

Desmond had not ever actually been given the task of taking care of Altair because Altair was old enough to take care of himself. Nobody had ever even mentioned to him that he might be interested in the full-time job of saving the arrogant snot from himself but he still found himself unable to walk away from a disaster-in-progress. That was how he found himself standing three feet to the left of Altair’s obnoxiously oversized bed watching the idiot hiding his face under pillows bemoaning the state of his hangover and his life in general.

“Too many dicks on the dance floor,” Desmond repeated. Because it was absolute gold as far as one-hundred-forty-eight characters went. The sort of thing that the public expected from Altair. The sort of thing that people with too much time were going to seize up as they hailed Altair as the poster boy of everything wrong with spoiled young people everywhere. “The longest night of my life.”

“It was,” Altair whined from the bed. “It was _the_ longest night of my life.”

“Yeah?” Desmond said. He was not even going to address the brilliant, brief interview that Altair had given out to whatever crafty newsperson had tracked him down. The idiot was drawn to cameras like moths to a flame with much the same ridiculous inability to see a deathtrap. “Do you remember any of it?”

Altair’s silence dragged for a moment too long. He threw the pillow at Desmond and rolled himself up in the blanket instead, his ankles and feet the only bit of him left sticking out. His voice was a muffled noise as he said (petulantly), “I remember being bored and being hit on by a bunch of homos.”

Desmond rubbed the bridge of his nose and recited as many numbers of pi as he could remember before speaking again. By the time he was calm enough to offer a reply to that startling ignorance, Altair was already looking at him from the end of his blanket-cocoon with his bony bare shoulders and hairless face making him look younger than he was. “Was that before or after you got drunk?”

“Before,” Altair said. Then, “I don’t remember what happened after. I didn’t spike that punch though. I mean, I might have if someone else hadn’t done it first but it wasn’t me that did it. How do I get dragged into shit like this?”

“You offered,” Desmond said patiently.

Altair deflated with a sigh, reached for his phone that he’d abandoned on the bedside table and hung off the side of the bed with his thumb moving across the keyboard in that way that meant he was making an already bad situation worse. 

“Be sure to tag this one, ‘pity party’.” Desmond left him to do it because Altair was not his problem to manage. He went downstairs and dug around through the cabinets filled with junk and fruit snacks to try to find food worth actually eating. He discovered a block of cheese in the fridge and a box of crackers in the freezer (for some reason) and went out to the living room to watch what was left of the game. Altair was already there, sheet over his head like a hood and legs crossed in front of him.

“I don’t know why everyone’s pissed. I don’t have to like gay guys. I said it was fine.”

“I think you miss the point,” Desmond said. “People aren’t mad because you don’t like gay guys—well they are mad because of that—but they’re mad because you’re an insensitive jerk who treats women like sex objects but doesn’t want other guys to do the same thing to him.”

“Who does?” (That question was best left unanswered at this juncture. Some people just weren’t ready for higher levels of thought.) “Not all of us can be socially conscious.”

“You could be,” Desmond said. He reached forward to grab the remote and flipped through the channels until he found the right one and offered Altair a sleeve of crackers. “It’ll blow over, nobody actually cares that much about you.”

Altair took the crackers and tipped his whole body so he fell into Desmond’s left side. The hard bones of his skull rubbing against his shoulder as he tipped his eyes up to look at him with all his concentration. He had long since outgrown the adorable roundness of his youth but years of practice had convinced him he could be charming with his face alone. “You always know just what to say to make me feel better,” he said softly. “I love you.”

“Better watch out, that’s a little gay,” Desmond said.

Altair’s sly grin was a mirror of every stupid thing he’d ever said. “I’ll always be a little gay for you.” Then he righted himself and opened his stupid freezer crackers.


	2. Chapter 2

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, caught a rerun of Family Blends, what the hell happened man you used to be so cute and round (22m ago)

son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, I don’t know, man. What happened to you? You used to be so pretty and thin. #dietshelp (18m ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, it’s called masculinity and muscle. You should look into it. (17m ago)

son-of-no-one: new goal in life, everyone. I’m going to climb this flag pole to prove my idiot cousin wrong. (15m ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, fifty bucks says you fall on your ass before you make it three foot off the ground. (10m ago)

It was eleven thirty in the morning, late enough in the day for Ezio to be awake and therefore a perfectly acceptable time to drag Desmond out of his dreary little apartment into the bright buzz of sunshine. But Desmond had whined his way through the extraction process, threatened to kill him twice and tried to put his pants on inside out three times in a row. By the time Altair had provided him coffee (a monstrosity of a paper cup with hearts drawn around Desmond’s name) and prodded him into a state of full consciousness, they were standing in front of the fifty foot flag pole that stood like an obnoxious eyesore outside of a hotel that took up an entire city block.

“You want to what?” Desmond asked. He still smelled like a barroom floor, was still wearing the shirt he probably wore the night before and his hair looked fully ridiculous. But he looked up, up, up at the flag pole. 

“I’m going to climb this,” Altair said. He stripped his own jacket off and started doing the stretches his trainer had told him to do every single day (to stay limber, the man said) that Altair almost never did. He’d spent a good five hours of his life learning them though so they stuck in his head. 

“ _Why_?” Desmond looked at him, not the pole, and took a drink of his coffee(like beverage). He took one step away from Altair when he sighed into the realization that he was serious. “I’m not participating in this. I’m an actual adult and I don’t want to be arrested for whatever crime you’re about to commit.”

“It’s not a crime,” Altair said. “Ezio bet me fifty dollars I couldn’t make it three feet so you have to film it.” He took the camera out of his bag and handed it to him. 

Desmond did not take the camera from him. “You are doing this because of Ezio?”

That wasn’t the entire reason. Altair had always been a fan of climbing things—trees, statues, those stupid decorative walls on the sides of buildings—and he’d usually gotten in trouble for it. The fact that he hadn’t thought of it until after Ezio said he didn’t have any muscle was a _coincidence_ as far as he was concerned. He was going to think of it himself eventually. “Take the camera,” Altair said.

“I bet you fifty bucks you cannot walk away from this,” Desmond said. 

“That is a stupid bet. Take the camera, Desmond.” He shook the camera in midair in that way he knew his cousin found intensely annoying and waited for Desmond’s sour little expression to turn into a full-out scowl. Then he grabbed the camera with his free hand and Altair smiled. “I’m going to put this on my Youtube.”

“Yeah,” Desmond said half to him and half to the camera he was turning on. “You can have a whole channel devoted to you falling off shit. We’ll call it ‘Altair can’t say no to a challenge’. It’ll be like those guys that do parkour only with more blood and broken bones.”

“That’s a good idea,” Altair said. He waited for Desmond to point the camera at him and nod his head to show it was recording. The sneer on his sour face echoing in his dark-rimmed eyes. Altair jumped, grabbed the pole and pulled his legs up. The metal was slick (most likely to prevent idiots like him from doing this very thing) but the traction of the rubber soles of his shoes gave him a slight advantage. His arms were protesting the weight of his body and his hands were sore after the first few attempts at gaining any height. 

“No you’re doing great!” Desmond shouted from the side. He was drinking his coffee and watching with the air of a man who had seen more impressive sights in a morgue. “Just a few more inches.”

Altair would have put his middle finger up at him but that would be giving up his grip on the pole. He tightened his knees around the thick metal pole and reached up with his right arm to pull himself up. His jeans made a slithering-scratching sound as he used the last of his arms pathetic strength to pull himself up. 

“Woo-hoo,” Desmond announced. “Your feet are now three feet from the ground. Can we go?”

Altair dropped, landed on his feet but hit his head on the pole hard enough to see stars. He didn’t fall but it was a very close call. He let Desmond drag him away. They ended up in a pancake house eating breakfast after noon as he replayed the video again and again. “I look stupid,” he said.

“Have you ever voluntarily exercised in your whole life? I’m pretty sure if puberty hadn’t revved your metabolism into overdrive you would still be bigger around than you are tall. I’ve seen the shit you eat and you do not deserve your waistline.” Desmond, noticeably, also ate nothing but junk covered in syrup with sugar sprinkled on top. “Don’t look at me like that. I do go to the gym. Where I sweat, voluntarily, and that’s why I can eat what I want. Your idea of a workout is making out with some girl you just met.”

“I could go to the gym,” Altair said. 

Desmond laughed at him. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and picked up his glass of juice to take a drink of it. “Yeah, you could go to the gym as long as you had an audience. Look, in order to—I’ve lost you. You’re not listening to me anymore. You’ve got that look on your face. Whatever you’re about to say is going to ruin my life. Why did I let you drag me out of bed?”

“Yeah but,” Altair said (he hadn’t really been listening, he’d been watching himself fail to climb the flag pole again). “I could make a second Youtube channel, right? It could be a parkour channel but like it would start with me getting a trainer or something and working my way up to it.” It was genius.

“People do enjoy having someone to laugh at,” Desmond said. “Maybe it’ll help your image. If everyone’s laughing at you nobody will notice the stupid things you say.” He reached across and took the camera from Altair, sat back in his seat and watched the video again. Then he let out another sigh. “If you post this, Ezio will never let you forget it.”

“I’ll make him forget it,” Altair said. “That’s the point. I’m pathetic and skinny now but I’m going not going to be forever.” 

“Well then let’s go clean it up so you can make a fool of yourself on a global scale and I can go back to sleep.” Desmond turned in his seat to call for the check and Altair finished the pile of hash browns on his plate.

\--

> I thought we agreed that we were not going to encourage the baby to do stupid things that were likely to end in his dismemberment or death
> 
> LOL, what did he do, try to wake you up before noon?
> 
> He was at my apartment at ten yesterday morning to drag me out to watch him try and climb a fifty foot pole
> 
> I thought he wasn’t gay
> 
> I am surrounded primarily by morons obsessed with sex and little boys that never grew up. I don’t know why I continue to associate with you. I should have cut my ties when I had the chance.
> 
> Aww, Dessie. You don’t love us anymore?
> 
> Concentrate, Ezio. We agreed to protect the idiot from himself, remember? We promised his Grandmother? Goading him into taking up parkour is not protecting him from himself.
> 
> He’s doing what?
> 
> When did that happen? Why? I did not tell him to take up PARKOUR. He can barely run in a straight line!
> 
> Exactly. Figure out how to stop him.
> 
> Although
> 
> NO EZIO. NO.
> 
> I’m not saying he should try to climb buildings or something but a little exercise wouldn’t hurt him. He’s going to get bored and quit anyway. Just if you think it’s getting out of hand, send him to me for a while.
> 
> Because getting drunk and sleeping with whoever crosses his path is better.
> 
> He’s not going to break his arm having sex
> 
> Well, he might because he’s uncoordinated

The trouble with appealing to Ezio’s common sense was that he did not possess any. Putting him with Altair was like throwing lit matches into a gasoline lake. They only needed the slightest justification to do something outrageous and stupid. It was why Altair had been relocated to the opposite coast and unofficially left in the care of Desmond. (Desmond who had left the family’s business of making public spectacles and throwing money around. He was a humble bartender now and happy enough to stay that way.) 

He was exhausted at the end of a long night at work, thinking fondly of his bed and stuck outside of his favorite coffee shop waiting for the girl that made his drink right to show up. (Well, he wasn’t stuck. He could have just gone in and gotten a drink or gone home and gone to bed.) “Why,” he said to his phone (that had no answer for him), “why would you say that?”

Lucy walked past the table he was sitting at (falling sleep) and she stopped long enough to be sure it was him before pausing a moment. “Did you work last night?”

“Yeah,” Desmond said.

“Where’s little Tommy?” Lucy asked. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this early without him propping you up.” She was smiling at him, though, as sweetly as possible. 

“He’s probably sleeping.”

“Are you going to make it inside to get a drink? Should I bring it out to you?” Her hands were pale across the top of the cast iron chair she was standing behind. Her hair pulled away from her face in a way that made her look far more ferocious than the softness of her voice would lead one to believe. 

“No I’m coming. I have to help ‘little Tommy’ find a trainer today so no sleep for me.” He picked himself up off the chair and rubbed at his tired eyes. His hands still smelled like mixed drinks and he needed a change of clothes and a shower. But going anywhere near his own apartment would end with him falling into his bed. The only thing worse than not sleeping was falling asleep and being dragged awake again before he was ready. 

“I’ll be sure to give you a little extra espresso then,” Lucy said sweetly. She held the door for him. “Wait until I come out before you order or Amanda will make your drink.” 

So he stood in the middle of the coffee shop looking at his phone and trying to summon up a reply to Ezio’s final comment and failing. Lucy whistled at him when she was behind the counter and he shuffled forward toward the promise of caffeine. 

It was an hour later, sitting on Altair’s couch (half asleep) when the brat finally emerged from the shower looking perfect and well-rested. Altair scoffed at him. “Why are there always hearts on your coffee cup?”

“That’s just the design,” Desmond mumbled.

“No it’s not,” Altair countered. “Come on. Let’s go find someone to turn me into an elite killing machine.”

Desmond groaned in objection. “Can’t you just take up running or something? You don’t really need a trainer. You look fine.” 

Altair grabbed him by the arm and pulled him upward. “I know I look fine. Come on, you promised.” Then they were on their way out, Desmond stumbling behind him and Altair walking with a happy skip in his step.

\--

> ### Why, Little Tommy, why?
> 
> Perhaps the most troubling thing about Altair Ibn-La’Ahad’s propensity toward ignorance is that he simply shows no ability to escape it. What started out as the punch line to the poor jokes in Family Blends has become a regurgitation of intolerance and sexism that maturity and education should have proven to be in poor taste. Rather than growing out of the role of Little Tommy, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad has grown _into_ it. Wouldn’t Aunt Tessie be _aghast_?
> 
> For those of you who escaped the horror of family-friendly programming that featured a round-faced, comically rotund and painfully talentless Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad in the supporting role of Little Tommy, Family Blends was a show that ripped off every family sitcom that came before. Incompetent TV mother Georgina Toll, overcome with her own incompetence, enlists the help of a variety of relatives and semi-relatives in the care and raising of her own two daughters. These daughters—both angelic in comparison to the average child—adopted (with little explanation for how or why) a brother for themselves in the form of Little Tommy. A boy who was ‘raised on the streets’ and who had ‘seen things that would make your hair fall out’ was full of degrading punch lines. He was famous for looking up women’s skirts, whistling at pretty ladies and making fun of ‘Auntie Thomas’ who was commonly thought to be gay. More important than the child’s bigotry (written in such a way to be thought of as charming) was the fact that the many, many adults in the show never bothered to address it. Little Tommy, much like the boy who portrayed him, persisted in stagnated prejudice while those around him learned sepia-toned after-school-special lessons at every turn. The only storyline that used Little Tommy as the center of a lesson was the painful-to-watch arch that led up to revealing Little Tommy’s birth mother as a sad, broken alcoholic woman that apparently had not noticed her only child had gone missing.
> 
> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad mirrors his character to a frightening degree. Having lost both of his parents at a very young age, he was raised first by his Grandmother (a woman who shied away from her family’s attention-seeking behavior). After her death, Altair was absorbed into a family of attention-hungry faux-celebrities each of them with their own troublesome set of behaviors and proclivities. Perhaps the most well-known and relevant branch of this family, the Auditores, have provided an understanding and encouraging shelter in which Altair was allowed to grow into a fully mature bigot. For instance, in response to his assertion that his family ‘doesn’t believe in that kind of thing, you know’, (that kind of stuff referring to homosexuality) he received the following series of remarks via Twitter.
> 
> EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, That’s what you get for going to a high school prom. I told you not to go. Come see me, we’ll go find some full grown women you won’t go to jail for looking at.
> 
> FedericotheFirst: @son-of-no-one, Stop lying, Altair. If we didn’t believe in gay guys we’d forget you exist.
> 
> I’m-not-drunk: @son-of-no-one, any dick but your own is a dick too many
> 
> To restore my faith in humanity, there was a spatter of comments attempting to explain the impossible to Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad: that his comment was unacceptable. Most of these were the cries of the faceless public that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad obviously ignores. There was one single comment from a fellow twitter member largely thought to be (but not yet confirmed as) a cousin of the Auditore family.
> 
> Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one: out of all the dicks on the dance floor, you were the only unwelcome one. Put the phone down and go to bed.
> 
> Thank you, Shirley-Templar. Please keep being a voice of reason.

There was probably something wrong with being preoccupied about blog posts so disproportionally that it was more important to him than the fact that he was going to be late to his own graduation. His mother was yelling at him from down the stairs, a long string of threats in heavily accented Arabic while Kadar shouted from the front yard about how they were going to be late if they didn’t leave _now_. But there he was, rushing to finalize the blog post he’d been working on for the past three weeks (mostly in his head). It was _important_ for many reasons, not the least of which was the hours of his life that had gone into buying and watching the terrible TV show Altair starred in as a child and the time he wasted at the library (not studying) researching the disappointingly mundane details of Altair’s life.

“I’m coming!” Malik shouted back at them. “I’m the Valedictorian, they can’t have the graduation without me.” He picked up the crinkly bag that held his gown and hat and let it hang down his back with the hanger cutting into his two fingers as he ran down the stairs. 

Mother stopped him at the bottom to lick her fingers and smooth his hair down in the front, bemoaned the state of his tie and the wrinkles in his white shirt (that nobody was going to see) before putting her two hands on his cheeks. She drew him down to kiss his forehead and there were tears in her eyes. “You are my baby,” she said. 

That was only because she hadn’t found out he was almost 100% sure he was completely gay. She had found out about the alcohol at prom and lectured him about the many evils of the world and he’d been grounded (until graduation) and his little blog post had floundered (unnoticed) in a great sea of useless information on the internet. Time had not made him less angry. Time had just given him the clarity of thought to plot out a series of posts he wanted to finish and time to do the necessary research. (Well, time and Kadar’s addiction to entertainment television and the brain rotting exploits of rich and famous-for-nothing people.)

“Of course I am,” he said, fully aware he was stooping low enough she could hold his face without standing on her tiptoes. Her hands brushed the wrinkles down on his shirt and then she was shooing him out of the door again. All of her haste returning now that he’d assured her that he had no plans of outgrowing her love. 

Kadar said, “I’m driving!”

“Nice try,” Malik said and threw the cap and gown at him. “Get in the back and fix your tie.” Then he caught the keys Kadar threw at his face and opened the door for his mother. She was shushing his little-baby-brother with tears in her eyes. 

“How am I supposed to learn to drive if I never get to drive?” Kadar demanded. He buckled himself in and undid his tie to stare at it like the enemy it was.

“Let me get through graduation and then I’ll risk my life teaching you how to drive,” Malik said from the front seat. It was his mother’s car (well-used and well-cared for) with the troubling wheeze at start up and the broken stereo that only played static and a Christian music channel that Malik refused to listen to. 

“If you get a job,” his mother added. “There is no use in learning how to drive if you do not have a job.”

“That’s not fair. You have to know how to drive to get a job.”

“Malik takes the bus,” his mother said with a tone of finality. Then she cracked her window and rested her hands in her lap. She was the only person that Malik knew that could sit perfectly still in the overly warm interior of a car with no music. Kadar was mocking her words in the seat behind her, knees spread and body slouched as he angrily worked on his tie.

“I’ll teach you the bus routes too,” Malik said helpfully.

“Yeah, no thanks. I’m too pretty to take a public bus.” Kadar didn’t bother to expound on the comment and their mother seemed happy to ignore it. Malik rolled his eyes and hoped for good traffic. He loved his family (as a matter of principle and simply because they were good people) but he was looking forward to nothing so much as he was looking forward to moving six states away from them. Kadar, especially, who clung to him with octopus suckers and refused to realize he was about to be utterly abandoned. That was the idea that he built in his head while he drove toward his graduation—

Freedom. Blessed, wonderful, complete and utter _freedom_.


	3. Chapter 3

> ### Sexism and the Semi-Celebrity: a Primer
> 
>   
>  (Read More…)
> 
> • **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  I think it’s just despicable the way you are dragging my husband’s name through the mud! There is nothing wrong with a good old fashion American man loving women in a good old fashion American way. Men were made to marry women and if you were not a God-hating shrew you would understand that. Women were made of man as I was made of my husband and there is nothing wrong with appreciating women that were made specifically to be appreciated by men
> 
> o **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  I’m going to set aside the obvious because as I have neither the time nor patience to argue a religion that I don’t believe in, any argument you have toward a god (of any faith) specifically creating women to be solely viewed as sexual objects by men is irrelevant. Just to be clear those points are also sexist and ridiculous. But I digress. Let us move onto something that can be argued with facts.
> 
> I want to take only a couple sentences to point out some points that should be obvious: the first being that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad is not a ‘good old fashion American’. His Mother was British and his Father was from Syria; he was born in Israel. The second being that while I would happily give America the honor of creating and propagating sexism and homophobia, I assure you it existed long before your country. Onto more important topics. 
> 
> You are not married to Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. He remains (thankfully) single. Not only did his recent, brief and very public fling with pop diva Teodora once again renew the public’s interest in his love life and inability to treat women with the respect they deserve but his twitter updated just this morning to despair his lack of sexy companions.
> 
> _”son-of-no-one: woke up alone this morning. #imissthesexalready”_
> 
> You are either delusional or a time traveler. If the first, I advise you to seek professional assistance. If the second, I extend you my deepest condolences on your unhappy union.
> 
>  **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  You are a Godless woman! Your blasphemy makes me sick to my stomach. Its whores like you that give good, wholesome women like me a bad name. You’re just another man-hater trying to destroy a woman’s chance at happiness. And as for your ‘condolences’ they aren’t wanted or needed! I am not delusional or a time traveler. I have been happily married to Altair, my husband, since my morning of my nineteenth birthday! Our marriage was a marriage of souls. Our priest was a heavenly angel himself.  
>  • **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  That honestly did not even make sense. I’m trying to understand but most of what you said seemed incomprehensible. Are you implying that you are married to Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad on some alternate plane?  
>  o **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  I am married to Altair on all planes. Our souls were joined by a heavenly spirit. Ours is a happiness a man-hating feminist like you can never hope to understand.  
>   **Anonymous**  
>  How can you dismiss a religious argument if your entire point is based entirely on your own morals? Aren’t morals built based on what a person is raised to believe is right and wrong and isn’t most of that based on religion?  
>  • **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  That is a compelling point that will be addressed in an entirely different post. For the purposes of this specific conversation and this specific instance, the existence of a god that created women for man is irrelevant to the greater problem that this woman believes she is married to someone she is not.  
>   **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  You can deny my claims all you want! It doesn’t change the fact that Altair is my husband!
> 
>  **Anonymous**  
>  You’re right. My bad. Continue.  
> 

Kadar only checked Malik’s new pet blog because of the ridiculous laughter coming from his brother’s room. It was too early in the day for Malik to be actually talking to someone he _actually_ knew but the unhappy hours of before noon (this far into summer) seemed to be the exact time that stupid people left comments on the blogs. He’d checked the fertilizer blog (a compelling read guaranteed to put anyone to sleep) and saw nothing more hilarious than a few fellow angry people agreeing about global warming (or whatever). He checked the general complaints blog and skipped through a riveting account of customer stupidity and the long winded replies from Malik’s equally boring friends. Then he checked the hate blog and skipped over reading the actual post to look for comments.

He was waiting for Altair’s astral wife to reply when Malik banged on his door and then let himself in. Being the older, smarter, better behaved brother that he was, the bastard was already dressed for the day. He threw a balled up pair of dirty socks at him that hit Kadar in the face. Then he invited himself to sit in his old desk chair and spun it around to kick Kadar in the leg. “Stay off my blog.”

“You said I couldn’t tell anyone about it, not that I couldn’t comment on it.” That wasn’t as important as, “why are you letting this crazy person call you a woman?”

“You can’t comment on it because you will inevitably say something dumb about who I am and that would ruin the whole point of it.” He picked up the squishy stress ball that Kadar abused when he had to write essays. The poor thing’s bulging eyes were nearly worn out from the stress of freshman English. Malik threw it at him.

“There’s a point to letting some crazy person call you a man-hating woman? She called you a feminist like it was an insult and you did not reply.”

“Well, she’s crazy,” Malik said as if it were obvious. Then he picked up the Rubik’s cube that Kadar was never going to solve and chucked it at him. Kadar dropped his laptop to the side and grabbed the Rubik’s Cube to throw it back at him. “The point is that I told you to stay off my blog so stay off it.” 

That did not seem like a good enough point to start or maintain a hate blog against a celebrity that hadn’t done anything moderately interesting in weeks. Dating Teodora (if you could count hanging out with her for two weeks while everyone made a big deal out of nothing dating) aside, Altair had started but not kept with a fitness youtube channel and that was it. “Nobody cares about your stupid blog. Don’t you have to work today?”

“Not until later,” Malik said. He tipped his head back and spun in the chair. “I’m bored! Crazy astral lady was the first exciting thing to happen this week.” He spun again and then lurched forward and said, “want to go to the Thai place?”

“I always want to eat food I don’t pay for.” Kadar jumped up and found clothes to put on. Malik left to get his wallet, keys and phone then they met at the front door. Kadar wasn’t lying when he said he hated the public bus system more than he hated just about anything. He only ever used it when Malik was with him because his brother was six inches taller, instantly unapproachable and created a wave of disturbance around himself that kept everyone from old ladies to shady looking guys away from them. “I’m right about morals though,” Kadar said.

“No you’re not. More important arguing religion assumes that everyone else cares about yours. Culture—which includes religion, yes but also other things—is more important than what god you believe in and what prayers you say. Morals can and do exist without religion. You’re not right.”

Kadar just grinned. Malik elbowed him in the ribs. “But an angel married her, Malik. An _angel_.”

“I’m going to punch you in the face.”

Kadar laughed and Malik resolutely ignored him. 

\--

>   
>  Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, in absence of sex there is still exercise and healthy eating. (1h ago)
> 
> EzioAuditore: @Shirley-Templar, you obviously don’t know @son-of-no-one very well if you think that. (1m ago)  
> 

“I am literally standing right next to you as you type that,” Altair said. “I can see you replying to that with my own eyes. I am _watching_ you.”

“None of that proves me wrong,” Ezio replied. He finished typing and tucked his phone back into his pocket. Then he slung his arm across Altair’s shoulders in such a way that made him feel small (when he was taller). “Besides, Desmond is delusional. He gave up the family and all of the many wonderful perks that come with it. He can’t possibly know what it’s like to be watched all the time. Or to be attractive to women. You’ve seen him.”

“He looks like the rest of us,” Altair said.

“Yes, but uglier. Listen to your _smart_ cousin now.”

“I didn’t realize Claudia was coming.”

Ezio barely took the time to frown at him for the comment. “Do not worry about Desmond. You came out here to get away from your conscience. Let me do my job.” It was such-a-wonderful-notion, full of the sorts of things that Ezio’s ideas were commonly known to be. There was drunken lechery and flashy showmanship. There might be an unnecessary fight or two thrown in just for the sake of it and when the day was done and the night was dark, there would be Ezio’s disapproving mother scowling at them. “You are thinking,” Ezio said as he took hold of his shoulders and shook him. “Do not think. I won’t do anything awful to you. Maybe some new clothes? We will go somewhere to eat. Beautiful women will ask for our autographs and fawn over us so we’ll buy them things. They want something from us; we want something from them. It’s all fair.”

“True,” Altair said. 

Ezio’s smile turned positively demonic. Then he dragged Altair out of the house and into the car. They spent the entire afternoon going from one store to another trying on clothes they had no intention of buying (while the anxious sales people watched and encouraged). They ate somewhere that served bright-colored-drinks in tinted glasses and emerged in time to go to Ezio’s most recent favorite club.

“Altair!” Ezio said over the noise in the club. His cheeks were pink from dancing and drinking and there was a girl tucked neatly under each of his arms. “Meet Tiffany and Mary. They wanted to meet you.” He whispered sweet-Italian-nothings into their ears and they laughed at him before they detached. 

Altair had been sitting at the bar, watching the two men and the woman bartenders trying to keep up with the orders and demands for drinks. He was working around to asking Desmond what that mix for his new drink was because blacking out seemed preferable (in that moment) to staying fully alert and aware of the dizzying lights and sounds. But Tiffany had dark-dark hair and Mary had red-red lips and they slid up to him with greedy fingers pulling at his shirt buttons and slip hands going across his back. “Hello,” he said.

“Hello,” they said to him (almost unison). “Your cousin said you were lonely.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I just broke up with my girlfriend.”

“Teodora?” Mary said. 

“Who cares about her,” Tiffany cooed to him. “You have us now.” She kissed him with two fingers on the underside of his chin and her lips wet-and-sticky against his. Mary’s hand was up the back of his shirt and Ezio had melted back into the dance floor to find more pretty women. Altair kissed her back and tipped his head to look at Mary (and her red-red lips). She pouted at him in the brief second before she kissed him. 

“Do you want a drink?” he asked when his lips were rubbed lipstick-red and Tiffany’s fingers were squeezing at the inside of his thigh. Whoever called him a sexist pig obviously hadn’t been in this situation. 

“I have drinks at my place,” Mary whispered into his ear. And Altair moaned as much at those words as to the way Tiffany’s hand and slid a few precious inches higher. Her smile was vapid-and-pleased. “Tiffany do you want to go get a drink?”

“Yeah,” Tiffany said. “What about you?”

Altair liked drinks. He let himself be pulled up-and-away, followed them out of the club to the valet that sent to get the car they drove. They were standing together, a couple of oversexed kittens making a delicious spectacle of themselves. He dug his phone out of his pocket, “picture?”

They posed for him before they took him back to their apartment so they could fuck like animals. In the morning he sent an SOS to Ezio with an approximate address (he found on a scrap of mail). It was Federico that showed up looking ready for work. 

“You, my friend, look as if you barely escaped with your life.” 

Altair sagged low in the seat and grimaced at the light in his face. “Then you can imagine how I feel.”

Federico laughed and delivered him safely back to the house before heading to work. Altair forced his poor tired body to bed and dug his phone out again to look at the picture of the women who had very nearly tried to eat him the night before. In the sober light of day, there was nothing unique or even really pretty about either of them. Mary (with red-red lips) had uneven eyes and small breasts (also a penchant for biting he did not appreciate). Tiffany, the prettier of the two, was long and thin with an awkward nose and thick legs (that had felt delightful when wrapped around him). He considered sending Desmond a message (considered how Ezio called him ‘his conscience’) and decided against it. Taunting Desmond with his sex life would just get him lectured. Instead, he rolled himself up in blankets and slept.

\--

>   
>  Mom wants to know if you need a ride home. And if you do need a ride home what time you get off.
> 
> No I got a ride.
> 
> What? With who?
> 
> Friend from school

“Malik,” Stephanie said when she stuck her head out from the little drive-thru cashier alcove. She had the mike pushed up away from her mouth and her hat off as she tried to get her hair put back up in a tight ponytail. “Some guy at the front wants to talk to you. He says that you went to school together but he doesn’t know your name. Should we tell him to get lost?”

Malik was halfway through restocking pickles and tomato slices (courtesy of the ending rush of lunch-time patrons) with a lingering desire to do nothing at all. The boss was tucked away in her office and he had nothing but brownie points stacked up in his favor since he went full-time at the start of summer. So he dusted his hands off and went around to the front. He looked at the options of guys that might possibly have recognized him (looked for someone he recognized). There was an older gentleman holding a cup of coffee with a sour frown while he waited for his order. There was a woman and her kid who was trying to climb up onto the counter while demanding to know what the toy in his meal was going to be. Then there was a guy approximately his age wearing a sleeveless shirt and a pair of bright colored shorts that may have been swim trunks. He had the sun-bronzed look of a guy who liked to spend time outside. 

“Yes?” Malik asked.

The guy (who looked vaguely familiar) smiled at him all tanned-skin-and-white-teeth. He stepped up closer to the counter with his sack of food hanging from his fist and a vaguely nervous twitter somewhere in the corner of his smile. “Yeah, you’re the guy from the prom that kept guarding the punch. You were in the debate club and Model UN.”

“Yeah,” Malik said. He looked at the man’s face (and what a nice face) and thought of sports. Not football because the man was too small for football, even to be a receiver. “Baseball?”

“Yeah. Alex. I cannot remember you name, man but I’ve had a crush on you since junior year.” That was not at all what Malik thought this guy was going to say. Maybe apologize for spiking the punch or maybe some generalized request for help of some kind. (Come to think of it, there really was no need to ask someone for help on your homework when you didn’t have any over the summer.) Alex, sensing the dead stop of Malik’s brain, went reddish in color and then said, “look I’m sorry I just—I thought I’m never going to get another chance so why not, right? I didn’t mean anything.”

“No,” Malik said before the man could continue thinking the wrong thing. “No it’s not that. I’m—working. I didn’t realize, really? Me?”

“Yeah. You look really good in a suit. I used to go to the stupid debate things just to watch you. That’s creepy, sorry. Want to go—hang out or something after you get off?” Alex was nervous and it was charming. 

“Sure,” Malik said. “I get off at four.” Which was about an hour and a half away. Alex agreed to come back and get him and Malik returned to the dreary world of making sandwiches. Peaceful enough until Stephanie escaped her cage and grabbed him by the shoulders with her body thrown against his back. Her voice hissing against the side of his face in universal excitement about hot guys. “Please don’t say anything,” Malik said quietly. “My Mom doesn’t know.”

Stephanie nodded. “But he’s too cute.”

She managed to keep it quiet until he got off and then she winked at him with a kiss blown in his direction. He ignored her and went outside (smelling like beef grease and mustard) and met Alex standing by his car trying to fix his hair in the small side mirror. “Want to get something to eat?” Alex asked.

So they went out to a pizza buffet and talked about college and life and high school and Alex’s shameful crush on him that went back farther than he originally said. “I thought you’d turn me down,” he said.

“Why?” Malik said.

“Well—I mean, you’re the smartest person I know. You were Valedictorian. And my friend, Amy, said that you were Muslim or something and that you couldn’t be gay.”

Well that was the least intelligent thing that Alex had ever said to anyone. Malik rolled his eyes at the notion. “Whatever religion I practice, I’m still human.”

“Like I said, you’re the smartest person I know and I’m an idiot. I’m going to college on an athletic scholarship.” Alex was charming, however. He was cute and Malik was two weeks from freedom and feeling reckless enough after a summer of a stupid job at a stupid fast food place that he hated. The monotony of slapping meat and bread together for low pay had driven the resolve he’d always felt toward escape even deeper into his spine. 

Alex was looking right at him, still talking about (something) the exact second Malik decided to have sex with him. It must have shown on his face because whatever Alex was saying came to a stumbling stop and Malik said, “you want to get out of here?”

They went to Alex’s house (where his parents were not) and when they were done, Alex drove him home. Malik was wearing his work clothes (pulled slightly out of place) with his hand under his arm and Alex standing there with the fondest look on his face and an awkward wave. “Maybe we can hang out again before you leave for school?” Alex asked.

Malik shrugged. “Maybe. You know where to find me.” Alex kissed him and Malik allowed it for a brief second before he pulled back because it was _his house_ where _his mom_ lived. “Bye.”

When he went inside, Kadar was sitting on the couch looking acutely casual about it. He looked up at Malik with his eyes round-as-sauces and his cheeks were all flushed. Their mother was singing in the kitchen and the whole house smelled of homemade deliciousness. “I thought you got off at four,” Kadar said a squeaky attempt at normal.

Malik grabbed him by the arm, yanked him off the couch and out of the living room, up the stairs and threw him (did not nudge him) into his room. Kadar stumbled backward, fell over the footstool that he always sat on and landed in the computer chair. It rolled back into the wall and knocked over a rack of CDs and there was his baby brother with his hands up in submission and defeat. 

“I’m not going to tell,” Kadar said so fast it was one blur of sound.

“Not anyone,” Malik hissed at him.

“Who would I tell? I wouldn’t tell anyone. It doesn’t matter—I don’t care, I won’t tell anyone.” With his hands up and his pink face and his hurried-hurried denials, Kadar couldn’t have been any more of a desperate little kid. He was barely fifteen, just old enough to know enough. Sensing that Malik wasn’t going to hit him (which he almost never did), Kadar put his feet on the floor and rocked forward in the chair (knocking more CDs down with the motion). “How long have you—uh—known?”

Malik sat on the end of his bed and let his shoulders slump forward. With the ghost of sex still hanging all around him (and the vivid memories of the act in place of the hazy, drunken, half-remembered ones of losing his virginity) the question seemed like a terribly unimportant detail. “I don’t know, forever? Look, this is the most important secret you’ve ever had to keep and you suck at keeping secrets.”

“Well, it doesn’t have to be a secret,” Kadar whispered.

“Yes it does. I’ll tell Mom when I’m ready and not before. You won’t tell her or anyone else at all— _ever_.”

Kadar nodded. Then he shifted in the chair he was sitting in and glanced at his computer. He stared blankly at it for a moment and then looked back at Malik, “oh shit,” he whispered in the next second. (Whoever said his brother was dim-witted obviously had not tried to keep secrets from him.) His two fingers were pointing at Malik as he jumped up out of the chair. “Oh shit,” he said louder. “The prom!”

“Shut up,” Malik growled at him.

“And you were drunk and you were gone all night,” Kadar just could not stop now. The train of thought had to finish itself. Malik attacked him not because he was right but because hysteria was making his voice get louder and louder. He tackled Kadar to the ground and covered his loud-loud mouth with his hand while Kadar kept going. He was saying, “and he was there, right? Did you sleep with him? Did you sleep with Altair?”

Malik glared at him.

“That’s why you started the stupid blog? That’s why I’ve had to watch seven seasons of Family Blends, the worst show ever made? Because you slept with some guy? Was it that bad?”

Malik sat back, Kadar stayed laid out on his floor. “No—I mean, I don’t remember it that well. I was drunk. I didn’t start the stupid blog because I slept with him. I started it because he’s a sexist pig in deep denial that went off blabbing to a reporter about how gay he wasn’t literally seven hours after he ditched me at a hotel after having sex with me.”

“What was it like?” Kadar asked.

“What?”

“No, I don’t want—I mean, you actually had sex with him. Think of all of the girls in your class that would gouge your eyes out if they knew that. That’s all I heard about before prom and _you_ slept with him.” Kadar was clearly adapting to this new information with startling speed. He had skipped over every manner of disgust and disappointment that Malik expected and decided (instead) to lead with impressed horror. “Is that why you don’t want anyone to know who you are? You think he’ll know it’s you?”

Malik snorted. “I doubt he will ever know about my blog. And I’m sure even if he remembers it happened, he’d deny it until he died. I just don’t want anyone to know. Don’t say anything to anyone. Promise.”

“I promise,” Kadar said. He got up off the floor then, reached down to pull Malik up to his feet after him. “But you should take a shower before you go downstairs because you smell and not like hamburgers for once.”


	4. Chapter 4

>   
>  How’s the bus?
> 
> I hate buses.
> 
> Hey, if you’re not answering does that mean ur dead?
> 
> If ur dead can I have your stuff?
> 
> I am in ur room. I am looking through your porn collection.
> 
> Oh come on. You should have least texted back to tell me that you don’t have a porn collection.
> 
> Did you never have any or did you throw it out before you left?
> 
> You suck as a big brother.
> 
> If ur alive could you answer please?
> 
> Mom said she wasn’t going to call you because you have left for college and she does not need to know where you are every second. But I think she’d still like to know ur alive.
> 
> Are you sleeping?
> 
> WAKE UP MALIK. WAKE UP. YOUR BUS NEIGHBOR IS STEALING YOUR WALLET. 
> 
> Fine. I have better things to do.
> 
> For fucks sake, Kadar. I haven’t even been gone eight hours. Shouldn’t you be doing the summer reading you’ve spent the past three months ignoring? I had Mrs. Rich for English and she is not going to pass you just because you smile at her. Read your fucking books.
> 
> I was sleeping. I’m on a bus for at least thirteen hours. There is nothing else to do. Go do your reading.
> 
> Where’s your porn?
> 
> I’ve never had any
> 
> What?
> 
> Why?
> 
> You mean other than the fact that I’m not interested?
> 
> Ugh. I forgot you were gay.
> 
> Well, I’m not picky. Do you have any gay porn?
> 
> Erase this entire thread as soon as we finish this conversation. And no.
> 
> Is that because you couldn’t find any?
> 
> I didn’t look. Unlike you, illiterate couch potato, I have an imagination.
> 
> Well that works for you. What do you even need? A mirror? I’m attracted to the OPPOSITE sex. I have never seen a girl my age naked in real life.
> 
> I like visual aids.
> 
> I don’t understand you at all
> 
> Of course you don’t. I’m a normal sixteen year old boy. When you were my age you were volunteering at a food shelter, had a job and took over the academic team at your school through prolonged bloody warfare with the former captain. I just want to a girlfriend and tacos.
> 
> Words of wisdom: he who has no job has no tacos.
> 
> Don’t start. Ur gone now. Mom is the only one that gets to tell me to get a job now.
> 
> Check my blog.
> 
> The Missus is spamming your post on how lazy Altair is with information about his toast preferences. Light brown, strawberry jelly.
> 
> I summarized that but it’s a paragraph. She gave you the whole history of how he came to like toast because of her. Before her, he ate his eggs without toast.
> 
> How barbarian like!
> 
> He also now drinks tea because of her. 
> 
> And he eats bacon. I want to eat bacon. Who do you think Mom would kick out first? You or me? Ur gay. I just want bacon.
> 
> You ask all the important questions, Kadar. Log in to my blog and check the messages.
> 
> I think I have to do my school reading.
> 
> Shut up and do it.
> 
> I did. Hold onto your panties.
> 
> Oh shit.
> 
> What?
> 
> You have like sixty messages and they are all from the Missus.
> 
> That’s not exciting. I thought something exciting had happened. I’m going back to sleep.
> 
> Sleep well.
> 
> Deleted the thread. As much for my own protection as yours.
> 
> Read. Get a job. Stop texting me. I’ll call when I get to school.

By the time Malik arrived at the dorms, he has surpassed tired, unhappy and uncomfortable and moved straight into exhausted, angry and aching. His body was protesting so many hours spent on a bus clearly not made with optimal comfort in mind, he hadn’t slept since his stupid baby brother woke him up and he just didn’t like anyone. To compound the insult of riding the bus, he had to take a cab from the bus station to his dorm and then carry his bags from the curb to his room. Despite the swarm of other students moving in-and-out of the dorms and the obnoxiously loud sound of so many voices talking, Malik’s roommate had not yet shown up.

He claimed the bed going across the outside wall and after the briefest of inspections to be sure there was nothing on the mattress, he flopped himself onto it and just enjoyed having the space to stretch his legs out. 

“Looks like you’ve figured out the basics.” Standing in his doorway was a tall man(?) with a scruffy dark beard obscuring half his face. He was clearly amused at Malik, and took a step into the room to extend his hand. “I’m Rauf, the RA. I’m asking for the basics: no drugs, no parties, limited stupidity.”

Malik got back to his feet (but didn’t want to) and held out his hand to shake Rauf’s. “I can manage the first two easily enough. I’m not sure what stupidity you’re referring to but I’ll try to avoid it.”

Rauf laughed. “I’m doing a group tour of the important places on campus in a couple hours if you’re interested.”

“Yeah,” Malik said. Rauf left to hail greetings to more of the incoming students and a great raucous noise swelled in the hallway and through the still open door. Malik looked at his bags and then back at his bed. He dug his phone cord out of his bag and plugged it. His phone (long since exhausted of battery) came back to life with an angry buzz and a reproachful ring. Malik dialed the number to his house to let his mother (and idiot brother) know that he’d arrived alive. 

\--

son-of-no-one: I’d go to the gym more often if less guys stared at me while I was there. (35m ago)

Nope. Desmond was not going to touch it. He was absolutely not even going to address the nonsense. In fact, he was enjoying a whole day off by relaxing as far away from Altair as he could possibly get while they were in the same city. His door was locked, his phone was on vibrate and he was going to play video games until the need for food interrupted him and then he was going to continue playing video games.

Desmond Miles was one-hundred-and-ten-percent not going to get involved in Altair’s stupid bullshit _today_. Except that his phone buzzed and Ezio’s stupid face showed up with a grin on the screen. Desmond regarded it from where he was standing. The phone danced across his table with the irritable little vibrations rattling through the wood demanding attention be paid. This cousin (more than the others) was especially prone to impatience and he’d give up in a matter of seconds if he didn’t get a response. 

It was less than thirty seconds later when Desmond got a text and it read: ‘at this point, he either needs to shut up about gay guys or come out of the closet.’

That horrifying thought was enough to make Desmond walk away from the phone entirely. He honestly could not have cared less if Altair was gay. (Except that if Altair were gay he was so deep in the closet he was in danger of running into those kids from Narnia.) It was the looming threat of impending drama that was about to unfold. There had been plenty of bloody warfare spread out across multi-media sources, Ezio was infamous for his blood feud with de Pazzi. While that had escalated (over the years) into actual physical violence it had started as snide remarks at social outings. Desmond had watched it back when he was still close enough to the drama to care. Altair was stubborn as a fucking mule and Ezio was a dog with a fucking bone and if either of them said-or-implied anything the other took offense over, the family would dissolve into civil war.

And there was really nothing that could offend Altair so quickly as questioning his stalwart heterosexuality.

Theoretically. Desmond had almost convinced himself to leave it, to start his game and mind his own business and let idiots do whatever idiots wanted to do. Then he had his shoes on and his phone in his hand and he was thumb-dialing a long-familiar number. It rang three-four-five times before the only intelligent Auditore answered it with a curt, “I am busy, Desmond. You could have sent a text.” Claudia sounded about as busy as a cat laying in a sunny place.

“Your brother just sent me a text saying and I quote, ‘at this point, he either needs to shut up about gay guys or come out of the closet’. He was talking about Altair.” He finished running (there was no point in walking) down the stairs of his apartment building and pushed open the door that put him out on the street. He’d had a car once, and then a motorcycle and now spent most of his time walking. 

Claudia sighed. “He’s not wrong.”

“There are two problems with that statement. One of them is that your brother takes pride in foisting women off on Altair if for no other reason than to make himself feel better about being the single most promiscuous member of your family. Altair is a close second but that’s only because your idiot brother keeps dropping women in his lap. Ezio does not think Altair is gay. Ezio thinks Altair is exactly like him.” Desmond patted his back pocket to be sure he’d brought his wallet and then headed for the crosswalk that took him toward the coffee shop. “The second problem is that Ezio does not care and Altair does.”

Claudia made an agreeing noise and there was a shuffle of motion on her end of the line that meant she must have been rising from her sunny place. “I don’t see that he has posted anything. If he sent you the text it must mean doesn’t think it’s clever enough to share.”

“But I didn’t respond, so he’s going to be looking for an audience that cares.”

“Fine,” Claudia said. “You know if you keep protecting him like this, he’s never going to grow up. You are doing yourself no favors. What is the worst that can happen, really?”

Desmond was stuck at a corner waiting for the light to change and a passing car honked at him for no noticeable reason. It covered the sound of his sigh of disbelief. “What is the worst that can happen if Ezio and Altair start fighting?”

“Ezio!” Claudia was shouting. The distant sound of her brother’s laughter echoed through the phone and Claudia started protesting in Italian (a language that Desmond understood approximately 10% of, that 10% comprised almost entirely of curses and dirty pick-up lines). She had the universal tone of annoying, unwanted little sisters everywhere as the speed of her words picked up. Ezio, muffled in the distance, was answering her back with his hands in the air (most likely going by the tone) and his words in a slow drawl. He shouted a curse at her that would have made Mama Maria lecture him for hours. Claudia made a noise of effort and Ezio howled in outrage. “His phone is in the pool. You owe me.” Then she hung up on him.

It took a good ten minutes to arrive at his favorite coffee shop in the world and five minutes to wait through the line. Lucy was making the drinks and Amy was taking orders. She did not even waste a moment to ask what he wanted but did pause long enough to ask if he’d like to try one of their sandwiches. (He did not.)

“Hey,” Lucy said while she was making his drink, “my girlfriends and I were messing around on the internet last night—googling each other and people we knew. I told them you were always coming in for drinks and I’d met Little Tommy a time or two. One of them had a huge crush on him when she was a teenager, thankfully she’s gotten over it. Anyway we were googling him and found this blog I think you’d appreciate.”

“If this is another one of those blogs where horny women try to guess his penis length, I really don’t need to see another one.” It was sad how many of them Altair had shown to him, honestly. He delighted in them with a childish glee. 

Lucy stared at him and then shook her head. “No. This is an angry feminist bitching about how stupid he is. I know that doesn’t sound entertaining in the traditional sense but there’s this one commenter that thinks she’s married to Little Tommy—more _importantly_ ,” Lucy said as she set his drink down in the little open space and leaned forward, “if you are Shirley-Templar—great name by the way—the way people think you are, you have been specifically named on the site.”

“Me?”

“Yes. Angry feminist chick is a fan of yours. It’s called the Sett’s Ground Floor and the blogger is Sass-Badger.” Lucy dug a piece of paper out of her apron and scribbled the words down on the back of it. She held it out to him and he took it (mostly to be polite) and thanked her. She smiled at him and waved before she turned her attention to the next drink.

Desmond found Altair’s number in his phone and waited for his idiot kid cousin to pick it up. “New plan, personal trainers are too intense for you. Gyms are too gay. Get your ass up, dressed and meet me at the park. I will pay you ten dollars every day you outrun me.”

Altair’s groan was a pitiful whimper of distaste for the very idea. “I don’t need ten dollars.”

“Ah, see, but every day you _don’t_ show up I’m going to tell the internet you have a five inch penis and you like wearing lady underpants.” 

There was a hiss through the phone. “You would not.”

“Try me.” Then he hung up the phone (because dramatics worked on Altair in a way nothing else possibly could) and he walked toward the park as he sipped his delicious-sweet-precious-coffee. Claudia sent him a picture message of Ezio standing by the pool with two hands in his (now frankly far too long) hair as he stared into the shimmering-blue-depths. Then there was another one of him soaking wet and furiously sneering in her direction. Then there was another of him staring at his phone sitting on a countertop as if he had just lost a beloved member of his family. Her parting comment was, _how’s it going for you?_

Desmond thumbed back, _taking mine for a run._

Claudia sent him an unhappy emoticon in response.  
\--

> Pro-tip, Altair. If guys look at you in the gym it’s not because they find you sexually attractive but because you’re skinny and uncoordinated and they fear for their own lives. If a man wants you he is not going to stop with *looks*. Until some mouth-breather wearing a wife-beater offers to help you work off some extra calories back at his house, shut up and mind your own business.
> 
> Who the hell is this?
> 
> Claudia.
> 
> Oh. In that case, shouldn’t you be in school or something?
> 
> I am nineteen now, Altair. I am in school, except it’s a university and I do not have class today. Shouldn’t you be in school?
> 
> What do you know about the gym?
> 
> More than you. I saw your video where you tried to climb the flag pole. Next time you are out here, I will show you how one does it properly.
> 
> Go paint your nails or something. Lose my number, never call again.
> 
> I was texting, dumbass.

Desmond was sitting on one of the benches by the north entrance of the park, looking decidedly not athletic with a balled up cheeseburger wrapper in one hand, a soda cup at his feet and his stupid heart-covered coffee cup still clutched in his greasy fingers. He was wearing jeans, canvas sneakers and one of his old T-shirts with the design so faded it was barely distinguishable.

“I’ll sue you for defamation of character,” Altair said. He tucked his keys into his pocket and looked unhappily toward the running trails that circled the whole stupid park. The last thing he wanted to do was going running _for fun_. After a failed attempt to actually go to the gym, he had gone home and stared at his computer for a while. That had turned into looking at various free-porn websites, clicking his way aimlessly through a bunch of links before arriving in a murky-section of the internet where threesome porn lived. If he ended up watching a few of them that involved more men than women, it was nothing but healthy curiosity. 

“I’m sorry,” Desmond said. “Four inches?”

Altair kicked him in the knee. “I thought you’d have something smartass to say about my tweet.”

“I do,” Desmond said. He stood up, stretched and bent over to pick up the soda cup. He sucked on the straw until it made that empty-noise that was universally hated by everyone and then tossed it, the wrapper and the coffee cup in the trash can across from the bench. “I am going to say everything I need to say when I lap you.”

“You will not.”

“Yes I will.”

Altair shook his head. “You’re a bartender, Desmond.”

“Fine, bet: if I lap you, you have to start doing your idiot-learns-parkour web thing again. I enjoyed laughing at you.”

“ _When_ I win, you have to do the stupid parkour thing with me.” Altair tugged the long sleeves of his shirt up and followed Desmond over to the path. They took their places on an imaginary line and Desmond counted them down from five. Altair took an easy lead at the start (running as fast as he could manage in one short burst) and settled into a slower pace after he had a good start. But Desmond went past him around a curve and disappeared. 

“This is stupid,” Altair said to the trees on his right. He slowed into a jog and then a walk. The fact that he didn’t _enjoy_ running didn’t mean that Desmond was magically better than him. (It might mean he was faster but that was not really a compliment a man should try to earn, really.) He started running again when no other source of entertainment appeared. 

The day was mild and pretty. It was easy to run when there was nobody to stare at him and nobody for him to look at. It was a quiet business, just his own breathing and the disturbance of dirt under his shoes. He zoned out after a minute, thought about what he could do with the parkour channel and how it would work if he had to add Desmond in. His cousin was notoriously opposed to being shown on TV of any kind and after turning down countless invitations to events over the years had been quietly stricken from the family’s guest list. Youtube wasn’t exactly the same as public appearances on national TV but Desmond probably wouldn’t care about the difference.

Altair was half-way through plotting out the layout of his new channel when the sound of approaching feet on his back made him turn around and Desmond slapped him in the back of the head with a cheerful, “lapped you!” and _kept running_. 

“No way!” Altair shouted at him and ran with renewed vigor. He caught up to Desmond and tackled him to the ground while the bastard laughed. They landed in the grass and Desmond shoved him to the side and pinned him there by sitting on his chest with his legs stretched out in front of him. “Get off me,” Altair said (or tried to. It was hard to talk with his chest being crushed).

Desmond looked down at him with faux surprise.

Altair licked his finger and stuck it in Desmond’s ear and rolled away from him when Desmond jumped up shouting about how disgusting he was. “You were sitting on me!” Altair shouted from where he was still sitting on the ground. 

Desmond was trying to dry his ear out by shoving his palm into it and failing. “You are disgusting,” he said again, “why do I even bother with you when you do such gross things? Your _spit_ is in my ear.”

“Why do you bother with me?” Altair demanded. He picked up a rock from the ground between his spread legs and threw it at Desmond. It missed him entirely. Altair sighed and then flopped backward onto the ground. The sun blinded him and the grass was damp feeling through his shirt. There was a rock wedged into his hipbone and he was pretty sure a colony of ants were marching up his pant leg. 

A shadow fell across his face when Desmond stopped just next to his shoulder and looked down at him with magnanimous pity. “I bother with you because your Grandmother took me in when I ran away from my dad. Because your Mother was my Aunt and because everybody deserves to have someone to tell them when they’re being a little shit. You’re being a little shit, Altair. I don’t care if you do parkour or take up ballet or go back into acting but find something to do with your life that isn’t making an ass out of yourself on the internet.”

“I’m not—”

“Yes. You are.”

Altair frowned at him and Desmond didn’t care (he rarely ever did). “Those guys really did stare at me.”

“You were on TV for seven years,” Desmond said. He moved away and the sun came back with blinding intensity. Altair grumbled about it as he got back up to his feet and was dusting off while Desmond picked up his wallet that had fallen out of his pocket while he was whining about spit in his ear. “Meet me here tomorrow at two. I’m not kidding about the internet, Altair.”

“I’m bringing my camera,” Altair said. “I promised the viewers that I’d document the whole experience of going from this,” he motioned at himself (and his unimpressively flat and smooth body), “to an elite killing machine.”

“Fine. But you’re not filming me.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked his messages. Then he headed toward the exit and Altair fell into step behind him. “Please don’t go back into acting,” he said after a moment. “I mean I support you and all but you were so bad at it.”

“I was like seven!” Altair said, “they didn’t tell me to act they just told me to say the lines.”

“You were bad.”

“Not bad enough. Everyone still calls me Little Tommy and I have to fight the impulse to choke them.” Although it wasn’t quite as bad as some of the terrible pronunciations of his name. Especially his last name (he had given up on correcting it). “Ezio’s going to try to get a reality TV show. He says that his life would be great consumer material.”

“Well, knowing him as I do, he won’t give up until he makes it happen. So that’s one more nightmare to keep me awake at night.” Then Desmond slung his arm over Altair’s shoulders and pulled him up against his body. He kissed him on the temple in the same way he used to blow raspberries on his cheek to annoy him when they were kids. And his knuckles rubbed at Altair’s scalp through his short hair with great affection. “Three inches?”

Altair elbowed him the gut as hard as he could and Desmond didn’t even pretend he didn’t deserve it.


	5. Chapter 5

> ### How Not to Do It: a guide by Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad
> 
> (Mind the warning children, do not attempt the following stunts at home.)
> 
> …Pardon me for questioning what is fast becoming the simultaneously most popular and pathetic attempt at gratuitous attention grabbing, but what exactly is the point behind Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s youtube channel ‘the-son-runs’? It is advertised as the grueling journey toward the self-proclaimed goal toward ‘becoming an elite killing machine’ but the many rambling confessionals from its star seem to indicate it is little more than a chance to show off Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s physical comedy routine. 
> 
> The exercise novice is so basically incapable of moving his own body that he has fallen on his face no less than twenty one times, fallen over backward seventeen times, twisted his ankle twice and once—in a very memorable video—managed to break his left ring finger. When he does manage to overcome his own innate inability to remain upright and in motion at the same time, he whines incessantly about the weather, his shoes, not being able to breathe and needing a snack. The result of this mockery of resolve to learn the dubious art of ‘parkour’ is obvious in the ‘summation’ section of each video in which the young novice declares that:
> 
> ‘ _Keep watching because I’m not giving up yet_ ’.
> 
> But then undermines the words immediately with gems such as this:
> 
> ‘ _You know, unless I get a girlfriend or want to sleep in or win the lottery. Ladies like money more than they like muscles._ ’
> 
> To compound this indecisive determination, his twitter is a mess of pathetic tweets proclaiming that his cousin (long thought to be Shirley-Templar, but not yet confirmed) has once again bullied him into the exercise his youtube channel proclaims was his idea. These crimes seem small and insignificant in the face of his many other public embarrassments but they are no less harmful. 
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
> For reasons that make absolutely no sense at all, you are a role-model for malleable, impressionable young minds. Your face is on the cover of teen magazines and your profile is a constant companion to any conversation involving twelve year olds that are attracted to skinny, arrogant boys with _golden eyes_ and big lips. Your popularity, however undeserved, puts your actions into the public eye where they are dissected by girls and boys searching for someone to emulate. If this fails to compel you to make a better man of yourself consider this alternative advice:  
>  Everyone is laughing at you. Nobody is laughing with you, sir. You are ridiculous, not charming. Either commit or quit.  
> Thank you,  
> Sass-Badger

Desmond had never intended to search for, find or start reading Sass-Badger’s charming little blog page. In fact, he had been two-thirds pissed the fuck off at Altair when he found the slip of paper in his jeans pocket. The smarting rage of having the little brat call him names on endless repeat just because Desmond actually cared _enough_ to try to make Altair understand there was more to life than money and women was what pushed him into finding the website.

The sheer volume of material on the blog had taken him several days to slog through. The majority of it little more than a constant attack on Altair’s character based on his public persona and his penchant for saying the dumbest things he could think of on short notice. While it was scathing, bitter and mean-spirited, the blogger stopped just short of maliciousness. 

Desmond read it when he was angry. He thought vengeful, agreeable things about how it was all true and his idiot-kid-cousin was going to hell. (Something Sass-Badger never said or implied, regardless of how many times Altair’s astral wife assured the blogger that she was going to hell.) In the six weeks since he’d found it, it had updated twice a week like clockwork. (He just did not understand how Altair had done so many stupid things in his life so as to provide that much material.) Desmond had fallen into the habit of reading it before he went to run with Altair.

Remembering there were other people in the world that thought his cousin was ridiculous, spoiled and bratty made him feel better about having to put up with it in person. But then there was, “leave me here to die, Desmond,” as Altair laid out flat on the wet ground at the park. His limbs thrown out like a sea star and his eyes closed against the gray glint of the sun through the drizzling clouds. 

“That is an attractive idea. Get up.”

The trouble with Altair. The _primary_ trouble with Altair was that he had manipulated everyone that loved him into giving up on him. (The noticeable exceptions being those people who had unfortunately passed away before Altair could force them into throwing their hands up in exasperation.) The boy could not use that powerful force of will on himself, could not seem to concentrate long enough on his own unimpressive resolve to fortify it against his own laziness. But underneath his whining, self-entitled nonsense, was iron will that could not be bent or broken. It came out in the most useless ways, like intentionally making an ass of himself until even Mama Maria had given up her attempts to moderate his behavior. So it was not exactly a surprise (maybe a disappointment) when Altair rolled onto his side with his arms and legs in a useless flop and said, “Shit like this is why nobody in the family likes you.”

“I don’t like anyone in the family,” Desmond assured him.

Altair got up on his feet. “Why am I an asshole because I say what I think but you can be a pretentious dick all the time and it’s perfectly okay? Why the hell do we have to do this every fucking day anyway? What good is this doing?” Altair shouted at him. He pulled at his shirt and jacket, so his soft toneless belly showed like a sliver of vaguely-golden skin. “It’s not helping! I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you just—being you all the damn time. Maybe I don’t want this!”

Desmond had two hands on his hips and his teeth grinding together. There was a sharp bite of anger set somewhere in his chest but more important was the belligerent self-assurance in Altair’s face. “You know what,” Desmond said to him. “I don’t care.”

He walked away from Altair because he absolutely did not care. Then it was just him and his apartment, the whole afternoon of quiet and reflection to marinate on the biting half-truths Altair had shouted at him. Desmond was not well-liked by his family; his opinion of living in the public eye was a well-known fact among them. He’d rebuffed their attempts at kindness and ignored their attempts to pull him back in and now existed as a semi-pariah with partial custody of the whining baby nobody wanted to be fully responsible for.

Desmond was slouching on his couch, drinking a beer with bitter thoughts in his head, thinking about finding Altair and telling him every single thing he thought of him. (But it was what Altair wanted, in the end, to be mocked, belittled and left to do whatever he wanted with self-righteousness.) That thought followed him straight to work, through serving bright colored drinks to bright colored celebrities and all the way to the early-hours of the morning with his hands pickled from liquor and his shoes stinking like the floor mats. 

Anger had him pounding on Altair’s door at six in the morning but it was absolute calm that grabbed his kid-cousin by the hand and dragged him to his desktop (seriously, Altair needed to catch up to the modern age) computer and shoved him into the chair. 

“What are you doing?” Altair asked him. He was blinking away sleep with his mouth hanging open and his hand rubbing at his eye like a toddler. “Did you just get off work or are you drunk?”

Desmond had the Sett’s web address memorized (a sad testament to how often he’d read it) and he typed it in with his fingers stabbing the keys hard enough to knock the keyboard around the desk. “You want to know why you get shit for being a little shit, I found someone that can explain it to you.” He shoved Altair’s chair up to the desk and ignored his little grunt of effort. “Educate yourself.”

“What the hell is a sett?” Altair said.

Desmond didn’t stay to watch him read it. He didn’t even know if he wanted him to, he just turned and left.

\--

> ### How Not to Do It: a guide by Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad
> 
> (Mind the warning children, do not attempt the following stunts at home.)
> 
> • **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  I don’t care for your tone, devil-bitch. My husband is working on getting himself in shape because I asked him to! A woman likes to know that her man is strong. He is not ‘indecisive’ and it is not his job to look after idiots. If you are so concerned about girls and boys maybe you should be running a kid’s program instead of attacking my husband all the time!
> 
> o **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  Hello Missus. How are you doing today? Have you contacted your doctor about the health check we discussed before?
> 
>  **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  Godless bitch. I don’t need a doctor as we’ve discussed before!
> 
> • **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  My apologies, Missus. Did you have any further thoughts that were relevant to the post are have you just come to tell us what sort of underwear you’ve bought for your husband? Have you finished teaching him to sing ‘God save the Queen’? 
> 
> o **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  He wears boxer-briefs. I do not need him to sing something he knows how to sing! And I don’t appreciate being mocked by you, feminist trash.
> 
>  **The-real-Son-of-No-One**   
>  Actually, I wear regular boxers when I wear underwear at all. I can’t sing. I don’t really care about the Queen (of England? I don’t even know what queen we’re talking about here). I’m not a fan of this feminist trash myself but I am definitely not married.
> 
> • **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  How dare you impersonate my husband!
> 
> • **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  At the risk of inviting another lunatic to continue commenting on my blog, I feel compelled to remind you, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad that as your Mother was British you have now taken up drinking high tea and eating toast with marmalade. One assumes that as soon as the powers of Google educate your confused wife about your Father she’ll stop feeding you bacon and forcing you into Christian norms.
> 
> o **Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad**  
>  My husband is as Christian as I am! As everyone should be!
> 
> o **The-real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  Right. Well, tea is gross. I eat toast with butter and sugar. Bacon is delicious. I’m not religious but I like Christmas. I’m not a lunatic but I’m a little flattered that you have put so much time and effort into dissecting my every action. I’m going to do you a favor and send some people your way.
> 
>  **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  I’m sorry. Do you think you are actually Altair Ibn-La’Ahad.
> 
>  **The-real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  No. I don’t think I am. I am. I’m just guessing based on your thorough work here that you’ll require proof of some kind. So here you go:  
> 

Malik slapped his laptop shut so fast the crack of it echoed through the library all around him and the cranky half-asleep woman across the table from him jerked upright and hissed, “be quiet. It’s a _library_.”

It was a library, sure, but Altair-the-asshole just posted a picture of himself in his boxers, sitting in a chair in front of his computer motioning to the screen that showed Malik’s blog and an opened comment box with the bastard’s new screen name on it. Altair had found the blog. The odds of that happening had to be as astronomical as the odds of winning the lottery without ever buying a ticket. The traffic on his unloved little website was almost literally limited to his brother, the Missus and maybe a hundred other people who couldn’t even be counted on to look at half the material. He had five followers to the site.

His phone vibrated in his pocket and he dug it out. Kadar texted him, ‘ _Altair just put your blog on his twitter. Why did Altair just put your blog on his twitter?_ ’

Malik jerked his computer open again, tapped in the password and waited for the internet to load again. It came up sluggish and unhappy, he refreshed his blog page and opened a new window to look at Altair’s twitter. He was struck _dumb_ but the surreal series of tweets, the first one nothing more than the web address of his blog and then:

son-of-no-one: good news, haters, I have found you a leader. (2m ago)

son-of-no-one: in other news, I am apparently married. You may all cry. (2m ago)  
son-of-no-one: also, in honor of ass-badger, stay in school kids. Eat your vegetables, listen to your fucking parents and stay away from jealous haters and feminists. (1m ago)  


His phone buzzed again and it was Kadar with, ‘ _are you still breathing? Malik. I just saw the new tweets._ ’

No he wasn’t breathing but he probably should have been. He sucked in a breath and it was as loud as a shout in the quiet of the library. His table-mate glared at him again and he couldn’t even fake an attempt at a smile.

Kadar sent: ‘ _well this is kind of what you wanted, isn’t it? Now you can call him names to his face and he’ll make it easy for you by using feminist like an insult._ ’

Malik would have replied to him but his blog page finally finished loading and there were one hundred and six comments on the first post. It was a staggering number of comments. It was more feedback than he’d ever gotten before on _anything_ and his mind blanked out on him. 

Then Kadar sent: ‘ _respond, Malik._ ’

Malik sent: ‘ _I’m breathing._ ’

Kadar said, ‘ _you slept with this guy? You need higher standards, man. Also 1998 called and they want their computer back_.’

Malik took a breath in and let it out again. He didn’t click the link that took him to the hundred comments but closed his computer (with far more rationality this time) and slipped it back in his laptop bag. Once it was secure he tucked the books and folders he’d brought with him back in their bag and left the library. Then he pulled his phone out again and called his brother, “you absolutely cannot comment on _anything_ , Kadar. Now, more than ever, you absolutely cannot tell anyone.”

Kadar made an amused, offended noise before he said, “you’re really going to take this guy on, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

Kadar sighed. “I wish you best, brother. You’re one man against a lot of stupid.”

Malik snorted. “I’ll be fine. Keep your mouth shut.”

“Fine,” Kadar shouted. “I like how he called you Ass-badger though. That was a nice touch.”

\--

> ### How Not to Do It: a guide by Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad
> 
> (Mind the warning children, do not attempt the following stunts at home.)
> 
> o **The-real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  Right. Well, tea is gross. I eat toast with butter and sugar. I’m not religious but I like Christmas. I’m not a lunatic but I’m a little flattered that you have put so much time and effort into dissecting my every action. I’m going to do you a favor and send some people your way.
> 
>  **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  I’m sorry. Do you think you are actually Altair Ibn-La’Ahad.
> 
>  **The-real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  No. I don’t think I am. I am. I’m just guessing based on your thorough work here that you’ll require proof of some kind. So here you go:
> 
> o **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  Thank you for your support, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. It is indeed a rare quality for a man of your caliber to have enough humility to accept criticism with such grace.
> 
>  **The-real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  I’m just a nice person like that.
> 
>  **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  I am curious, however, about your opinions on the matter actually discussed in the post. While the information about your tea and toast preferences are no doubt helpful to your wife, they are not relevant to the greater problem.
> 
>  **The-real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  I know for a fact that you read my tweets.
> 
>  **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  I will address your tweets in my next post, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. I specifically want to know if you intend to commit to or quit your embarrassing exercise video blog. To be clear, I am not asking because I am interested in your body in any way. My interest is based solely in determining if my original estimation of your character is correct or not.
> 
>  **The-real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  And what is your original estimation of my character? Don’t hide behind the feminist bullshit. Speak plain everyday English like everyone else. Nobody cares about how many words you know if they have to use a dictionary to read your shit.
> 
>  **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  I think you are an ignorant, condescending, overly-arrogant, pampered individual that is afraid (in equal measures) of succeeding and failing. I think you avoid anything that would require you to put in any actual effort and make a joke of your pathetic attempts at _attempting_ something to cover the fact that you are completely aware of your own shortcomings. In short, I think you think very highly of yourself to cover up the fact that you cannot do anything. You are still a belligerent child, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. 
> 
>  **The real-Son-of-No-One**  
>  That is a load of bullshit.
> 
>  **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  Prove me wrong, then.

To his credit, Desmond didn’t even pretend like he was expecting his apartment to be invaded. He was still wearing his work clothes, yawning away sleeping on his couch and frowning at Altair standing at his front door with a scowl of distaste. He had one hand on the door and the other hanging at his side as he took in the sight of Altair standing there and then said, “you read it then.”

“You mean the steaming load of bullshit written by some dyke that hates men? Yes I read it.”

Oh-and-Desmond just sighed at him. “Let’s get this straight before we go any further. Just because someone says something about you that you do not like does not mean they are a bad person. You say things I don’t like all the time and I don’t think you’re a—faggot.” The effort of saying that word obviously pained Desmond (and offended him on a deeply moral level) because he was frowning at it as he said it. “The blogger is not wrong about anything she has said about you. If that pisses you off—good. It means there’s still hope that you won’t always be an asshole. Now what do you want?”

Altair didn’t even know what the hell he wanted. Because Ezio and Federico were sending him messages about how he shouldn’t worry over feminist bitches on the internet. Then there was Sass-Badger with complete composure under the weight of sudden focused intensity of a great unknown mass of internet anonymous. Altair had scrolled through the comments on the post and snickered at the mindless hate in them; felt a twisted pleasure in the random death threat or two. He wanted the bitch to be scared off and after about an hour of pause, she was back with her calm-little-words calling him a belligerent child. 

Desmond sighed before Altair realized he hadn’t answered. “Come in.”

Altair didn’t want to. “All that shit she said about me, you believe it? You think that’s who I am?”

Desmond knocked his head against the door and closed his eyes. His breath was a growling gnarl of sound and then one long depressing sigh. “I think,” he said it like a man trying to defuse a bomb, “that you have time to change. I don’t think anything she’s written is wrong but I think it doesn’t have to be permanent. And for the love of fucking Christ, Altair, do not attack this woman.”

“She attacked me.”

“She _criticized_ you.”

“Yeah, well, let me go write a few dozen fucking things about you on the internet and see if it doesn’t feel like a God-damned attack! And you’ve been reading it? Fuck you.” Altair didn’t even know what he wanted but turned away from the door and left Desmond there because he didn’t want to be around him anymore. Desmond didn’t follow him (for one of the first times in forever) but close the door softly and leave him to it.

Altair wandered around the city, went to get something to eat, ignored his phone and pouted. He was twenty-fucking-years-old and he could pout if he wanted to. There weren’t a lot of people left in his life that cared what he did with himself (almost nobody, actually) as long as he wasn’t doing embarrassing things while he was wearing a suit at some function or another. Altair was good at getting by and he didn’t need _anything_ because his Grandmother had set him up for life before she died. It was easy not to worry about anything when there was nothing to worry about. 

He found himself in the park with no real idea how he’d gotten there. Desmond was sitting on the bench they met at with his jacket zipped halfway up and a cheap coffee cradled in his hands. He had the red-rimmed look of a man who didn’t get enough sleep as Altair fell into place sitting at his side. Desmond was leaning-forward, not back when he said, “I don’t like our family’s obsession with fame. I think money and attention makes people stupid, lets them think it’s okay to do things that it’s not. You didn’t have a chance, in some respects. You were thrown into it before you could make a choice about what you wanted.”

“I like people knowing who I am. I like the thought that people care about what I’m doing,” Altair said. That much he knew was true. He wasn’t some movie-star person with body guards and obsessive fans that followed him around. But he was well-known-enough to have people love him for the sad accumulation of nothing that he did do. “She called me a belligerent child. She said I mocked myself to cover up the fact that I’m a failure.”

“I read it,” Desmond said. He sat back and looked at him. “I believe she also challenged you to prove her wrong. You like a challenge, right?” He motioned out toward their running path.

“Yeah.” They did the stretches that Desmond insisted were important and ran for a while. By the time they finished, Altair’s body was overheated and coated in sweat. He felt disgusting and slick everywhere but his lungs were starved for air and he hadn’t gone rubbery from exertion. His head felt clear (at last) and while he was still angry as hell about the prolonged personal attack against him from the faceless bitch on the internet, he felt decidedly less _hurt_. “I can do this.”

“Might need to take up more than running as daily exercise if you’re planning on really doing parkour.”

“Ezio told me knew a guy.” Altair dug into his pocket to find his phone and Desmond shoved his hands into his own pockets to watch him. He didn’t say a word but the pleased little grin on his face was enough of an indication of his thoughts on the matter. “Stop smiling. Get some sleep, asshole, I need you to help me make a video later this week.” Then he found Ezio’s number and called him to extract the name of the personal trainer he’d gone on about the last time Altair was out visiting him. The supposedly god-like person of an unforgiving nature that Ezio promised him would push him until he thought he was going to break (or something like that). The phone was still ringing and Desmond was still grinning when Altair put his middle finger up at his idiot cousin. “Shut up, go away.”


	6. Chapter 6

> ### Hello Haters, Fearless Leader has Arrived
> 
> Please refrain from taking the title of this post too literally.
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
> If you are still reading this blog, I have prepared a response to your tweets. Before I begin, I would like to direct you to an online dictionary that I found and vetted myself. I assure you that should you find any words used on this blog to be too trying, there are simple definitions to be found here. Now I will answer your tweets in the order that you posted them.
> 
> 1\. Thank you for drawing attention to my blog. I feared that I would languish in internet obscurity. My mission was a humble attempt to point out what I felt were continued but not necessarily malicious acts of social ineptitude that you, yourself, often commit. This has led me to an admittedly murky area of the internet where missions like mine often devolve into witty quips dripping with seething hatred. It is a mighty temptation to resort to sarcastic, degrading remarks about your person, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. I may have found myself going down a dark and unforgiving path if you had not seen fit to shine a light in my direction and herd your own followers toward me with such great kindness.
> 
> 2\. I am not a hater. I do not hate anyone. I do not hate you, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Perhaps this penchant for overreaction speaks to your age. Perhaps your own skewed idea of right and wrong do not allow you to understand the difference between drawing attention to a continued social ignorance and blind hatred. If it is the former, time will allow you to understand my meaning. If it is the latter, you may need professional intervention to correct the issue. To anyone that has flocked here to this blog with the misunderstanding that I endorse, condone or encourage hatred, I am sorry you were sorely misdirected. Please leave.
> 
> 3\. Congratulations on the news of your happy nuptials, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. I have shed a tear accordingly.
> 
> 4\. My screen name is _Sass_ -badger, not ass-badger. You betray your immaturity with frightening consistency, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. I applaud you for taking up the mantle of social obligation even if you did it with limited success and a great deal of obvious condescension. It is important to let young people know that vegetables are healthy, their parents should be afforded a basic level of respect and disdainful misinterpretation of other people’s intent should be spread like a virus across the globe thus cementing the unfortunate connotation of _vapid bitch_ when one reads the word ‘feminist’. While I could endeavor to explain feminism to you, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, I feel at this juncture in our young relationship that it would simply be a waste of time. So I will only ask that you refrain from using words that you obviously do not understand. 
> 
> Thank you sir and have a good day,  
> Sass-Badger

“But I feel like _I_ need a dictionary,” Kadar said. He was sitting at Malik’s desk (he wasn’t sure why, but it seemed like the right thing to do) with his phone pressed between his ear and his shoulder while he read over the newest blog post. He’d avoided it for a few days after trying to slog his way through the insane number of comments on Malik’s last post. “I grew up with you. You had that whole vocabulary thing you did every summer and I need a dictionary.”

Malik sighed through the phone at him. “You’re lazy and he’s five years older than you. More importantly, you’re supposed to be helping me find the best comment so I can put it up on Monday.” 

“Are you sure that answering random anonymous hate mail with public open letters on your hater website is really the best thing to do? There has to be a limit to the amount of irony you’re allowed to employ before it becomes an outright satire.” He was scrolling through the endless, barely literate comments from a great variety of people whose sole contribution to the discussion seemed to be ‘yeah well you suck’. 

“It’s not a hater website,” Malik said. He made it sound like he believed it too. 

The problem was that his big brother (angry on good days) had started, maintained and now dug in to defend a blog that did nothing but pick apart every action of a (non-)random celebrity. That wouldn’t even have necessarily been a bad thing except that the only reason Malik had for starting the blog in the first place was because he got drunk and slept with the guy. “Yeah, well, if it’s not a hater blog—and I’m seventy percent sure it is—then it’s in the gray area that is leaning heavily toward hater blogging. I’ve read everything you’ve ever written on this thing and you have not acknowledged anything positive about this guy.”

“Yes, I’ll just rush out and write up a blog post about how great it was that he finally gave up acting.”

“Haaaaaater,” Kadar said. He stopped scrolling when he got a brick of text that seemed to be nothing but the words ‘die, whore of satan’ over and over again with varying levels of successful typing. 

“I do not hate him. I have not written or posted anything that isn’t a reasonable interpretation of the facts and everything that I’ve said in protest to his actions has been as fair as possible. Just because he’s never done anything that deserves positive attention doesn’t mean I wouldn’t give it if he did.”

Kadar leaned his cheek against his fist and had to hold his phone in his hand again. It left him no hands to scroll with (shame that). “Do you watch his video blog?”

“Yes,” Malik said. Without even a hint of shame.

“Then, you should acknowledge him for it. He made that whole video of clips of him falling on his face and butt just for you, Malik. Then he even said that he hadn’t been taking the video blog as seriously as he should and that he’d hired a trainer. He even addressed you specifically, Malik. He said, ‘watch this ass badger’. He has like four videos of him actually working out.”

Malik huffed a sigh. “When he makes it two weeks without quitting, I’ll acknowledge him.”

Kadar huffed back at him. “That is an unreasonable compromise but I’m going to hold you to it. And I mean it. Do not mock or belittle him in anyway if he makes it two weeks. Make a post, publically make it known that you have seen his progress and unless he grabs some girls butt and laughs, refrain from sublimating your deep hatred for him by finding social fault in his actions for one freaking post.”

“I don’t like how you’re on his side,” Malik said. “This man does not deserve you.”

“Every man deserves a fair trial, Malik. Now prove you’re the bigger man—”

“I already did.”

“—and do the right thing. Is that a penis-size joke? I am an impressionable young person, Malik Al-Sayf and you cannot just make penile jokes around me! Your gayness will microwave through the phone and then what do you think will happen? Mom will have no good sons.” He started scrolling through the comments again. “Are you ever going to tell these people you’re not a girl?”

“No. I like being called a raging whore bitch from hell that needs to choke on a cock and die,” Malik said. “My favorite is the one where I’m supposed to ‘literally suck a dick and die’. That’s all it says. What is supposed to have killed me in that scenario?”

“Sounds pretty life threatening to me,” Kadar mumbled. “Ok, I found one. This person misses the point of your blog entirely, thinks Family Blends was quality television and feels like you shouldn’t mock the Missus when she has an obvious spiritual connection with Altair.”

“No, that’s crazy. I need hate. I might just do ‘literally suck a dick and die’ because it’s concise and yet so meaningful.”

Kadar finally reached the bottom of the page and sat back in the chair that groaned under his weight. “Fine, do that one. But for next Hater Monday you need to pick something you can actually give an answer to. Not that I don’t love some witty comebacks.”

“Did you do your homework?” Malik asked.

“Did you do yours?”

Kadar did not even need Malik to say, “yes,” to know what the answer was going to be. Of course his big brother had finished his school work and probably read a few chapters extra and went to the library and got a few extra books on the subject. He had color-coded notes and a binder system all dedicated to his homework. 

“I’m hanging up,” Kadar said. Malik just laughed at him. “Yeah, whatever, see if I help you again, hater.”

\--

son-of-no-one: finally the much anticipated response. Oh ass-badger, i am not immature, I just think you’re an ass. (5h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, do not lie to the lady. (5h ago)

FedricotheFirst: @son-of-no-one, TL;dr but it is good you finally found yourself a woman with enough venom to make your life interesting. You are too fond of easy women, cousin. (5h ago)

EzioAuditore: @FedricotheFirst, he is not wise enough to try to bed this one. He would easily lose an arm or a face in the process. (5h ago)

FedricotheFirst: @EzioAuditore, but that is what makes it fun. (5h ago)

son-of-no-one: @Ezio Auditore, @FedricotheFirst, I would not try to bed this woman. I like being the man in my relationships too much to enjoy having to fight for it. (5h ago)

Five days into an ‘intense physical revolution’ (as his trainer, the crazy man who stole his money and tortured him called it), Altair was sore everywhere on his body that wasn’t aching. The space between his fingers were even hurting as he tried to hold onto his drink. It was too cold (snow weather) to be sitting outside at the coffee shop but he didn’t like the smell inside. His coat didn’t a reasonably good job at keeping him warm for the weather and his gloves did a passable job of keeping his fingertips from freezing off. He was squinting into his phone as he read through the old tweets.

“Excuse me,” was a pretty sounding voice from in front of him. 

Altair lowered the phone long enough to take stock of the source of the voice. Found a pretty brunette with a shopping bag (nothing he recognized) hanging off her elbow and a purse at her hip. She was pretty in a bland kind of way with pleasant enough plumpness to her body that added desirable volume to her breasts. He said, “yes?”

Her eyes were an odd shade of brown, kind of like mud. She smiled in the way that instantly betrayed her as a fan-of-his (but not recent, one from the long-ago Little Tommy days), “are you the guy from Family Blends? Altair?” It was one of the best pronunciations of his name he’d heard in a while. 

“Yes,” he said.

“I loved that show,” she said to him. “I always felt really bad for Little Tommy. I couldn’t help but think if someone had just—you know—shown him love that he would have really improved.”

Altair set his phone on the table and motioned toward the empty seat across from him. “That’s not what I usually hear.”

The woman sat, made a little noise of unhappiness when the cold seat shocked her and then settled with the bag across her lap and her smile going all pink in her cheeks. She was wearing gloves over her hands and a scarf around her throat. “I like to think that everyone has some redeeming quality about them. Could I get your autograph? I can’t believe it’s really you—you look a lot different.”

Altair smiled at that sentiment. “Puberty was a really good time for me,” he said. “I got tall, lost weight, got all hairy everywhere.” He shoved his hands into his pockets because his fingers were freezing cold. “Yeah I can sign something. What’s your name?”

“Dessie,” the woman said as she dug a scrap of paper and a pen out of her purse. She held them out to him and he scribbled his name and a generic catch phrase on it before he handed it back. The woman thanked him and looked at his name with open wonder. “Are you planning on going back into acting?”

“God no,” he said. “I was terrible, everyone thinks so.” He picked up his hot chocolate (by now luke-warm at best) and took a sip of it. 

“No you weren’t,” she said.

“Yeah I was,” he assured her. His whole tired, sore body was unpleasantly chilled everywhere by that point and his silly resolve to avoid going home, lazing around in a hot bath and writing mean things anonymously on Ass-badger’s blog had faded sufficiently. He stood up and his knees and the muscles in the backs of his thighs protested wildly. “It was nice to meet you, Dessie.”

“You too,” she said. She stood up as well and he looked her over one more time as he nodded his head in farewell and left his cup on the table as he went around the short gate that blocked the tables from the parking lot. “Thanks for the autograph!” she said. She was clearly the sort of fan that was going to call all her girlfriends and tell them all about meeting him. (Going by her smile and the way she was digging her phone out of her purse.) 

Altair went to his car and pulled his gloves off so he could use the tiny keyboard. Desmond was still ignoring him (or sleeping, whichever was most likely) when he typed out the tweet:

son-of-no-one: just met a fan. Nice woman who asked for my autograph. Always refreshing to know the world is not solely populated by ass-badgers.

He was at home, defrosting in a hot bath, before his phone alerted him to an incoming message. It was in the other room and he was in the giant tub in his bathroom. His toes and fingertips were finally getting full feeling back in them and the heat of the water was relaxing all of the hurtful places on his pathetic little body. Whatever the message, it could wait until he was finished. (And that was what he told himself on repeat, over-and-over-and-over again even though he knew it was a lie.)

Altair flopped naked (and vaguely wet) belly-first onto his bed to grab his phone out of his pants pocket. It was a text (not a tweet) from Desmond. It said, ‘ _I see you’re handling the most recent post with your usual grace. I just have two questions, did you sleep with the nice woman who asked for your autograph and how was the gym today?_ ’

‘ _No._ ’

And,

‘ _that man is determined to snap me in half, I swear. Not in a kinky way that will improve my sexual resume but in the way wherein he is attempting to break my bones into small enough pieces to carry around in a suitcase._ ’

There was a pause long enough for him to go back to his bathroom and get back in the tub full of almost-scalding hot water. Desmond sent him back a text that said, ‘ _I feel so proud of you right now. And exercise is good for you. The longer you do it, the easier it gets._ ’

Altair stuck his tongue out at that idea. He dropped the phone into the pile of towels next to the tub and sank down low enough that the water was filling up his ears and lapping up on his cheeks. He blew bubbles in the water and thought about nothing-at-all-particularly until he was working out witty one-liners to use against Sass-Badger’s stupid posts.

By the time he got out of the tub (pruned) and dressed and found something to eat that required no effort on his part to prepare, he had not successfully come up with any comebacks worthy of posting. He sat in front of his computer scrolling back through the old posts and reading the comments from his astral wife. 

There was a button at the top of the page that invited him to send Sass-badger a personal message so he clicked it and typed:

> ass-badger, I was not born in Israel. I was born in Aleppo, Syria. My mother died in Israel about a month later and people do a very good job mixing those facts up. Seeing how you are a consummate perfectionist, I’d appreciate if you would correct this information to prevent it from spreading even farther.

Then he huffed a sigh and tried to weigh the likelihood that he could successfully get into Desmond’s bar without getting caught. In a few short months he would be officially twenty one and he wouldn’t have to worry about it anymore. (Not that he worried very much about it now. Ezio frequently got him into bars and Desmond could be convinced to let him try out the new mixed drinks he made whenever he wanted to get drunk as quickly as possible.) He didn’t even want to get drunk; he wanted to get laid.

He picked his phone up and then set it down and then picked it up and still hadn’t convinced himself about whether or not he wanted to go see his horny cousin on the west coast where women literally rained from heaven into his lap. 

A reply from the ass-badger popped up in his inbox in his moment of continued indecision.

> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, I will be sure to address this issue on my next post. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.

“What a bitch,” he mumbled at the screen and didn’t even understand why.

\--

> ### Happy Hater Monday #001
> 
> Hello and welcome to a new feature on my humble little blog. As many of you (if not all) are doubtlessly aware I was an unknown entity this time last week. Thanks to the intervention of a benevolent benefactor, I have been repeatedly thrust into the blinding lights of internet stardom. As a consequence of fame, and perhaps as a consequence of criticizing a man who is lauded as a poster-child of the socially ignorant, I have received hundreds of anonymous messages detailing many reasons I am hated. My initial impulse was to ignore these comments and proceed forward with my head held high but after spending quite a while reading through them, I have decided to highlight my favorites. Thus, every Monday I will post my favorite hateful comment here and respond to it.
>
>> literally, go suck a dick and die
> 
> I have chosen this one because it is the most concise of the many offerings. It just barely won out against the comment that called me a ‘hor of satin’ which I assume is a terrible misspelling of ‘whore of satan’. If not, I am unsure what a hor is but I am made of flesh and blood, not satin. I also chose this one because I cannot figure out if I am meant to suck a dick and then die from the act or if I am to suck a dick and die from some other means.
> 
> Am I meant to suck a poisonous dick?
> 
> Will I be allergic to the dick I am sucking?
> 
> Will the very act of sucking dick kill me?
> 
> Perhaps it is meant to imply that I think too highly of myself to enjoy sucking dick. In which case, my shame at having committed the act would cause me to fling myself off something high. 
> 
> Maybe this person is a holy prophet and is trying to tell me my inevitable fate. I will one day suck a dick and then in the subsequent moments, _die_. 
> 
> There is a great puzzle in this words, one that I will think over every time I perform oral sex on a man.
> 
> In other, highly unrelated news, I would like to point out that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad was not born in Israel. He was born in Syria. Please tell everyone that is interested in this information.

Malik’s roommate was a largely absent future member of a fraternity that appeared in odd moments to announce random things but was almost always available to make loud noises and play handheld video games whenever Malik needed to study. He once-or-twice showed up and announced he needed the room to entertain some friends and meant that he was going to have sex with whatever woman he’d managed to convince into finding him charming. He’d devised a system to alert Malik of this eventuality that involved tying a tube sock around the doorknob.

“No,” Malik said to the door when he got back from the library (where he’d been forced to go in order to study and work on his paper). He was cold. He was tired. He was crankier than normal after slogging through six pages of mindless hate on his recent blog post. The unnamed, anonymous populace of the internet audience had provided him with a wide variety of suggestions about how he should proceed to ‘suck a dick and die’. 

And now he was standing outside of his dorm room, staring at the sock, listening to the not-so-distant sounds of his roommate stinking up the whole room. “No,” he said again. He was acutely aware of how pitiful his protests were. 

“You too?” was the call of another poor fool that had been locked out of his room. 

Malik looked down the hall toward the sound. The guy who spoke to him was sitting against the corner at the end of the hall with his long legs sticking straight out in front of him and his bag split open at his side. There was an assortment of folded papers all around him and a reasonably impressive stack of books set up like an apartment building in front of him. The apartments themselves seemed to be inhabited by little origami animals made out of loose-leaf paper. “Yeah,” Malik said. Since there was no hope of getting into his own room he went down the hall toward the unknown person. “We haven’t met. I’m Malik.”

“History or English major?” the guy asked without looking up from where he was folding the paper. 

“History,” Malik said. “Art?” It was a terrible guess but he was willing to be wrong. 

“Engineering,” the man corrected. When he looked up his eyes were brilliant-blue and his cheeks were vaguely pink. His hair was a dingy sort of blond that looked as if it had needed a haircut about six months ago that he’d just forgotten to get. “I’m Leonardo.”

“I’ve heard of you,” Malik said. “Some of the guys were talking about how you were a genius and they were going to try to pay you to do their math for them or something. What are you making?” He sat down because standing and looking down at the clutter felt awkward.

“They did try. I have a moral objection to cheating so I had to decline their generous offers. I am—I do not know what I am making. I was just trying to see how high I could build this before it collapsed and then I thought it looked like rooms in a house and so I started making animals to put in it. I think these are my English notes,” he pulled one of the papers open and nodded his head. “English is not that important, is it?”

Malik scoffed and waved his hand to dismiss the very idea. “How long have you been locked out?”

Leonardo leaned back against the wall behind him and looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes? You would think that would be more than sufficient when you consider the average length of penetrative intercourse in this state is approximately six minutes. Twenty seems like time to work up to it, get it over with, take a shower and share a scone. Yet, here I am.” 

“Six minutes?” Malik said.

“It’s sad, really.” Leonardo looked intensely sad about it. 

“Its equal parts sad that someone timed it and that it was over so quickly. I’m pretty sure I’ve given head that took longer than that—six minutes?” He adjusted the way his laptop bag was lying so it wasn’t cutting into his side anymore and looked back down the hallway toward his room. “Although it that gets me back in my bed faster…”

Leonardo laughed lightly. He started taking apart his structure and slipping the books back into his bag. “I don’t think it matters how long you take to do it as long as you enjoy what you’re doing.”

“But six minutes,” Malik repeated.

“For penetrative sex,” Leonardo reminded him. 

“Sex,” Malik said and sighed. 

Leonardo was looking at him with a speculative narrowness of his eyes. “Forgive me for being blunt—are you gay?”

There must have been something about him that outwardly indicated it ever since he’d given up on denial and moved toward acceptance. He was a full-out practicing gay man now and ever since he’d gone off and given his virginity to the asshole who abandoned him in a hotel room, the information seemed to be broadcasted on his face. “Yeah,” he said. “You?”

“Yes,” Leonardo said. He finished tucking all his things back into his bag. He looked toward his room—a ribbon was tied around his knob—and then back at him. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No. You?”

“No. They are too distracting. I like having the freedom to go where I want without worrying about the obligation of reporting in to a significant other that has claims over my time and attention.” A pause, “but I do like sex.”

“Sex is good,” Malik agreed. 

“Would you like to go get something to eat? Then possibly to come back to whichever of our rooms is empty and have sex as a purely casual arrangement between two like-minded individuals?” Leonardo (clearly anticipating his agreement) was already getting to his feet. He was even taller fully upright and Malik felt ever so slightly ridiculous standing next to him and still having to tip his head back to see his face completely. 

“Yes,” Malik said, because he could easily have skipped the step where they went for food at this point. There was no available room, however, and Leonardo seemed like an interesting enough person to spend time with. 

“Excellent,” Leonardo said and led the way.


	7. Chapter 7

> Ezio
> 
> Ugh, if I come out there for Christmas is Mama Maria going to make me go to midnight mass again?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> You ask this every year. Every year the answer is the same.
> 
> Yeah because every year I don’t want to go to midnight mass. There’s less food with Desmond but there’s also less religion. I like that about him, he doesn’t chant in latin.
> 
> Do what you want but remember we are going to crash Desmond’s bar for your birthday. Federico and I are both coming.
> 
> Desmond took that day off.
> 
> WHAT?
> 
> DID YOU TELL HIM? 
> 
> WE AGREED YOU WOULDN’T TELL HIM ABOUT THE PLAN.
> 
> I think he figured it out on his own. He has a brain and has known you all his life.
> 
> Perhaps we should just go to his house and he can make the drinks.
> 
> You have to try the new one he made. It’s called Assassin’s Creed or something. I had really vivid dreams about killing people in the name of freedom in the dark ages or something.
> 
> Are you coming for Christmas? I can guarantee you’ll get laid if it sways you into suffering through midnight mass with me. I will even teach you how to say all the words correctly so you won’t embarrass yourself this year.
> 
> I’m not falling for that again.
> 
> Fine. But I will introduce you to many lovely women that find you attractive.
> 
> I’m going to try to bring Desmond.
> 
> Funny, I did not hear on the forecast that hell was going to freeze over this year.
> 
> Maybe if you weren’t a dick to him all the time he wouldn’t avoid you.
> 
> It’s not me. It is Federico and my Father.
> 
> But you’re bringing Federico to my birthday binge. Whatever. I’m going to try.

Altair stopped by the coffee shop that Desmond loved on his way to try to con his cousin into venturing out west for the annual ordeal of the Auditore Christmas Fiasco. The line was nearly to the door when he got in there and the other patrons had the addict-on-the-edge look of coffee fanatics that needed a fix. He kept his hands in his pockets and his elbows tucked in close to his body as the line moved forward by halting, awful, tiny steps.

There was a girl named Amy with red tips on her blonde hair and a bored-at-work kind of expression on her face. Her lipstick was a tint of pink and she had a nose piercing. He smiled, “is that blonde girl here? The one that makes Desmond’s drink?”

“I am!” Lucy (according to the name tag she wore) called from the tight cubby where the drinks were made. 

“Yeah, whatever that is, that’s what I want.” He pulled his wallet out while Amy rang up the drink purchase. Then he shuffled over to watch Lucy work. The line was dispersed out to tables and there was nobody but him waiting. “Hi,” he said. 

“What’s up, Little Tommy,” she said back. 

“That’s not my name.” 

“Desmond’s kid cousin?” Lucy said. She set the drink down in the open space and reached forward to grab him a straw that she balanced across the top of it. Her body was bent forward across the short counter with her elbows jammed into the small space. “I actually don’t know your name.” (He found that very hard to believe.)

“Altair,” he said.

“Altair,” she repeated. She straightened up again. “Happy holidays.”

“Yeah, right,” he said. He picked up the cup and carried it with the appropriate amount of care. Desmond hadn’t ever actually threatened anyone (that he knew of) over the offense of messing with his drink but it was a near thing. Altair managed to keep it from spilling the whole way to Desmond’s apartment.

“You brought me a drink,” was the greeting he got after Desmond finally answered his door wearing his pajamas with his hair stuck up all along one side of his head. He was unshaven and smelly. For a minute they stood there, both of them looking at the drink, and then Desmond let out a whining sigh and took the drink. “What do you want? Video editing services? Body double? Back rub?” He peeled the lid off the cup and sniffed at it. “Lucy made it?”

“If that is the name of the blonde girl that works there, yes.” He closed the door and threw his coat over the pile of stuff that was once a short bench near the door. Desmond went to the couch-and-chair area and flopped into the old black chair. 

“Well, give me three minutes to enjoy this and then launch into your proposal,” Desmond said. 

Altair checked for new messages, found none, and then picked up Desmond’s laptop off the coffee table. He went looking for ass-badger’s website and found it bookmarked on the browser. Desmond wasn’t signed in to the website (why would he be) so there was the annoying ‘prove you’re at least 14’ bars that he had to click to access the content. There was a new Happy Hater’s Monday that looked too long to be read in three minutes. The posts had nothing to do with him (except for the one time Ass-Badger responded his anonymous hate message) and aside from stirring shit and generating even more hateful comments seemed to do very little.

“Ok,” Desmond said.

“Come to Christmas with me,” Altair said. He closed the laptop and set it aside. He had a whole speech prepared (if necessary) and had figured out exactly how much groveling and begging and pleading he was prepared to do in order to compel Desmond to give in. All-in-all, he thought he had figured out the way to get what he wanted.

Then there was Desmond’s sideways frown over the rim of his coffee cup. “I don’t go to that,” he said. He hadn’t gone since Grandma died nine years ago. He hadn’t gone to anything since Grandma died but stayed right where he was with all of the tenacity of a mule and zero explanation. “Besides, you don’t want me there. I would just disapprove of your drunken sexual encounters and elbow you in the ribs when you started laughing at Mass.”

“I want you to go.”

Desmond scoffed. “You have to be a lot more convincing than that if you expect me to change my mind. I’m not going to because I don’t go to that.”

“Why?” Altair asked.

“Because I don’t.”

That was the same frustrating answer he had been given every year he’d asked. He growled a loud noise of frustration and threw a pillow at Desmond who deflected it without spilling his coffee. “I’m not a child.”

“Ha.”

Altair threw another pillow at him and Desmond caught it and threw it back at him. “If I go out there by myself, I’m just going to end up getting drunk and sleeping with a bunch of women that Ezio knows. And someone will end up being thrown into the pool—and Mama Maria will threaten to take away my inheritance again.”

“She can’t touch your inheritance. Nobody can touch your inheritance,” Desmond said.

“She makes a convincing case when she’s angry about her broken china.”

Desmond sighed at him. “I’m not going. You are almost twenty one years old, you are old enough to decide for yourself if you want to get drunk, have sex and break your aunt’s plates without me.”

Altair threw the pillow at him again and Desmond gave him that older-wiser-man look of utter-fucking-disbelief. Then he set his coffee down on a reliable surface and got up to beat him with the pillow. “Hey!” Altair shouted while he rolled over the back of the couch to avoid being hit with the pillow. “That one has buttons!”

“Sorry, I’ll get a different one!” He did and then Desmond stepped up onto the couch and jumped off the back of it, tackled Altair flat to the ground and hit him three or four more times before they were both laughing too hard to maintain the charade of the fight. Desmond collapsed next to him. 

Altair rubbed the raised red mark on his cheek where the button hit him from the first pillow and then huffed. “I want you there,” he said.

“I know,” Desmond said softly. “But I’m not going out there.”

“What if I promise not to date any former Disney starlets while I’m out there? What if I swear not to say anything stupid on Twitter? What if I don’t sleep with anyone while you’re there? And I’ll fight Federico if he says something to you?”

Desmond snorted. “Federico would break you without producing sweat. Him and Ezio used to have cage matches in the game room every Christmas Eve when you were a baby. Federico literally hit Ezio in the head with a step ladder once.” He sat up. “This isn’t about you, Altair. Nothing that you promise to do or not do will change my mind. Go, have fun, tell everyone I miss them.”

Altair shoved him sideways. “I got your stupid drink, jerk.” Then he sat up. “Go for a run with me, at least?”

“I need to finish the coffee if we’re doing that.” Desmond put an arm across his shoulders and pulled him in close enough to knock their heads together. “If you still care, I’ll tell you what happened next year. That way I won’t have to figure out what to get you for Christmas.”

“Yeah, whatever. Go drink your coffee and get dressed so we can freeze our testicles off running in the park.” He got up off the floor. 

\--

> Kadar
> 
> In two hours I’m boarding a bus that I’ll be stuck on for sixteen hours. I don’t want to hear a single thing out of you. So get it all out now
> 
> Ok.
> 
> How about how you promised to write a post on your hater blog and you didn’t.
> 
> How about we talk about my girlfriend at school who is probably trying to date the football jerk that calls me Kaddy? 
> 
> Should we talk about Ms. Rich and how she spends the whole time I’m in her class comparing me to you! She calls me Mr. Al-Sayf the younger and *frequently* reminds me how I don’t compare.
> 
> Maybe we can talk about how Mom has made me vacuum under the couch twice since you’re going to be home in a few days.
> 
> No! No, let’s have a conversation about why I have to take ANOTHER GODDAMN LANGUAGE despite the fact I already speak two of them fluently! Why do I have to learn another one? 
> 
> And just to make it worse, I have to take another language AND I’m failing it. And Mom is on my case because I’m getting Ds in French. She’s shouting at me in Arabic about how I need to learn another language!
> 
> Maybe we should talk about how I just want pizza and Mom has decided that I’m a soulless American child and refuses to allow me to eat anything but authentic Syrian food. I don’t care, Malik. I DON’T CARE ABOUT WHERE WE CAME FROM.
> 
> We could talk about how gay you are.
> 
> Maybe we could talk about Altair’s new video blog because he’s leaving for the ‘holiday season’ and he just wanted to explain why he’s going to be gone until after his birthday. And he specifically mentioned you once but he called you a scrooge.
> 
> Was your plan just to ignore me while I texted you all this?
> 
> You’re a jerk.
> 
> I hope the bus breaks down.
> 
> I hope they play nothing but Christmas songs the whole sixteen hours and your MP3 player breaks.
> 
> I hope you get stuck next to someone’s Grandma that wants to talk about how much she loves her grandbabies while she knits homemade booties and you have to hold the yarn.
> 
> Not ignoring you, trying to get laid. Stupid text noise keeps interrupting. You’re on silent now so please continue.
> 
> I hate you. 
> 
> What is sex like anyway? I mean I have some ideas. But what is it really like?
> 
> I’m really bummed that my girlfriend wants to date another guy. Not like bummed enough to break up with her. But bummed.
> 
> I hate French.
> 
> And you. I hate you most.

The addition of the radio playing non-stop Christmas classics was an unfortunate compromise. Leonardo (who didn’t seem entirely interested in the holiday) had turned it on because he thought it was classy to drown out the sounds of them having sex with music.

“You can’t change the station?” Malik had asked back when he was still taking his clothes off. 

Leonardo had also been stripping his clothes off. Every layer he pulled off getting them closer to the mutually beneficial sex they had fallen into having as often as they could stand it. He was surprisingly fit under his clothes—the long length of his body deceptively thin while dressed was a magnificent tight masterpiece while naked. “But then I’d have to find it again. It’s not my radio.”

Malik could have done without the background noise of Silent Night playing loud enough to ward off anyone from knocking on the door. But he was due to get on a bus very soon and go back to his Mother’s house and try to pretend like he wasn’t gay. “Fine.”

“Are we going to need condoms and lubrication?” Leonardo was naked now, pale everywhere with a splash of freckles on the back of his shoulders and across his nose. They were fainter now than they had been earlier when they first started with this. (Lack of sun, Leonardo had told him.) He was crouching by his bed, digging the boxes he kept things in out from under his bed to find the one where he’d stashed their sex supplies. 

“Yeah,” Malik said. He put his clothes in a pile on top of the bag he was taking back to his house with him. Then he went over and sat on the bed while he waited for Leonardo to fish out the proper things.

The thing that he’d learned from having sex with Leonardo was that the man was a genius on more levels than Malik’s poor brain could comprehend. Because Leonardo had stopped short in the middle of giving a blow job to write something down that he’d only just figured out. He had taken to babbling things that Malik couldn’t have deciphered under optimal conditions (much less when he was trying to get off). Then there was the expertise that the man had over his own and Malik’s physical body. He made it seem so _easy_. 

But they were still lacking in the more traditional passion. Kissing Leonardo was comfortable but it wasn’t necessarily arousing. His body didn’t care though because it was conditioned to start tingling as soon as the man’s hands got on him. That must be why he found himself on his back with his legs wrapped around Leonardo’s body as often as he did. It was just so very easy to lay back and let the master do his work.

“Who keeps texting you?” Leonardo asked.

Malik had to get up and get the phone, scroll through the eight miles of Kadar’s complaints and silence the stupid thing. Then he fell back in bed. “My brother.”

“Important things?”

“No.”

Leonardo made a humming noise. “Younger brother?”

“Yeah. But I’ll be stuck with him for like three weeks, so he can wait.” Then he pulled on Leonardo and they were back-at-it without a moment’s pause.

Retrospectively, Malik questioned the wisdom in letting Leonardo top him a few times in the hours before he got stuck on a bus for sixteen hours. By the time he found a seat by the window and defensively piled his things in the seat next to him to ward off any of the other few people on the bus that might have thought it was a good idea to sit by him, it was too late to do anything about it. His body felt quite a bit like pudding still and there was a definite (but ignorable) strangeness of feeling in his ass. 

He pulled his phone out and read through Kadar’s texts with the appropriate level of concern for what they involved. Didn’t care that much about their Mother’s resurgence of despair over her sadly Americanized children. (In Kadar’s defense, he was born in this country.) He was faintly worried about Kadar being bummed because his girlfriend wanted someone else (but not terribly worried). He even managed to feel a bit of sympathy over failing a foreign language because he had taken German and still hated it. 

But then there was the dig about the post that he had ‘promised’ to write and the whole rambling nonsense about Altair’s stupid video blog. Malik had started his blog with the express purpose of being a voice of reason against the idiot’s onslaught of constant stupidity. And when that bastard found it (how, Malik still could not figure out) he had done nothing but pester him with repeated digs. That was after he sent his legion of loyal followers after Malik with utter glee. Kadar’s insistence on showing the coward even the slightest bit of respect annoyed the fuck out of him. (Kadar’s interest in the blog annoyed the fuck out of him.)

> Kadar
> 
> I’ll write something good about him when he does something to deserve it
> 
> No you wouldn’t.
> 
> Yes I would.
> 
> No. You wouldn’t. You hate him. He could save an orphanage from fire and you would still find a way to make it seem like a bad thing. You’d write a whole post about how he was wearing designer jeans while he did it and how that contributed to the greed of modern children.
> 
> Or some crap. I really cannot imagine how you think.
> 
> That’s not true.
> 
> Then why haven’t you mentioned his yearly charitable contributions? Or how he has not given up on his exercise blog? Or how he actually had a whole video dedicated to eating healthy and how it sucked but was necessary?
> 
> I mean I get the guy ran out on you and it was traumatic.
> 
> That was six months ago. 
> 
> You’re a hypocrite at this point.
> 
> I think you are overstating things
> 
> Of course I am.

Malik turned his phone back on vibrate and shoved it in his pocket. He had a book and a fully-charged MP3 player (which wouldn’t last him sixteen hours) to pass the time until he could fall asleep. His stupid brother was an idiot and he wasn’t right about anything. (And that’s just what he told himself for the first two pages of his book that he ended up rereading about ten times and still didn’t understand.)

He slouched in his seat, dug one of his notebooks out of his bag. He intended to write a dissertation on why his blog wasn’t a hate blog (based solely on the fact that everything he said was true) and ended up staring at the empty page. He dug his phone out and sent, ‘ _I hate you_ ’ to Kadar.

Kadar took a few minutes to text back, ‘ _glad you figured out I was right._ ’

And Malik slipped the phone back into his pocket as he growled low in his throat and doodled on the blank sheet of paper while he tried to work out what he could possibly write in celebration of Altair-the-Asshole.

\--

> ### Good Show, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad
> 
> The time has come to admit the truth. I have been ignoring an obvious truth that I feel can no longer go without having the proper attention paid to it. A person who can admit fault with grace and humility is a person that I readily admire as I find the practice to be the most grueling and unpleasant of tasks. And as with all unpleasant tasks it is best to do it quickly.
> 
> I have been wrong, not in my goal, but in its execution. I have proclaimed loudly and often that this is not a hate blog and that I do not hate Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. I have openly mocked the anonymous hate messages that I’ve received and listed (frequently) the many faults that I find in Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s socially ignorant actions. But the truth is that, by refusing to acknowledge the potential for good in Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, I have created a continuing culture of intolerance and hatred. By responding to his many attempts to communicate me with sarcastic rebuttals I have done nothing but show the same disregard for him that I hold in such disdain. I have purposefully shut my eyes against anything positive in Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s actions. I was wrong and I extend a reluctant apology.
> 
> To further make up for my own shameful behavior I have resolved to start a new feature on the blog dedicated to encouraging Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad to continue to grow as a person by providing him with the single thing that seems to motivate him above all other: attention. The first Tuesday of the month shall henceforth be used to congratulate Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad on a job well done. 
> 
> My own pride is still smarting from having to face up to my own faults so I offer this admittedly pitiful olive branch to the-son-of-no-one and hope that he has enough maturity to take it as it is intended.
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
> You are doubtlessly aware that while I remain anonymous on your many other media outlets I am a frequent watcher of your video blog(s) and an avid reader of your many (many, many) tweets. During our initial interactions I accused you of being a belligerent child without enough willpower to even _attempt_ to follow through on your exercise blog.   
>  I am not apologizing for this opinion. It has remained largely unchanged. However, I would be remiss if I did not offer you my most sincere admiration for your ability to make light of your own failures, your renewed vigor for executing your plan to ‘become an elite killing machine’ and your own amusing (if half-assed) attempt to explain the necessities of choosing healthy foods. Your advice to the interested parties that view your videos was meant to be sincere and informative and that, sir, shows that while you often neglect to show it, you have the potential for thoughtfulness.   
> Good show, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad.

Desmond had not checked the website since Altair left for the west coast a week before. He would not have even checked it (four days before Christmas) if not for Altair sending him the text saying, ‘ _Look, hell froze over. Now you have to come to Christmas_ ’ and directed him to the Sett.

On the twenty-first he’d read it with a half-smile on his face and glowing warmth in his chest at the general ability to learn as a human being. Altair didn’t post anything to his twitter about the post and didn’t respond to it in the comments until the twenty third when he put:

Son-of-no-One: see now, ass-badger, I knew my charm would work on you eventually.

Desmond took a drink to that intelligence. His friends (in the city) were all on their way back to their families or banding together to enjoy the general delight of the season. Desmond was laying in his apartment with his feet on the coffee table and a laptop balanced on his gut all-by-himself because Christmas left him with a bitter taste in his mouth. His cell-phone was on vibrate, pressed against his collarbone up by where his chin was pressed to his chest and his house phone was unplugged to avoid the yearly call from his Dad.

There weren’t many things in the world that Desmond couldn’t handle. He’d grown up in the center of _this_ family, complete with public appearances, spite and _money_. Entitlement made him feel sick to his stomach and back-stabbing infuriated him beyond all reason but he had gotten a thick skin and the ability to accept just about anything. 

Oh-but-then there was his Father and his every-Christmas-phone-call that made Desmond feel nothing at all but a burning fury that took months to work off. Avoiding the issue didn’t fix it but the silence gave him a chance to pretend like it did. 

He called Altair because he didn’t have the coordination (slightly drunk as he was) to manage texting. It rang four-five-six times before Altair answered it with the sound a club drumming music at his back and his voice in a hushed-shout saying, “are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine,” Desmond said. “Are you posting tweets at a club? Why are you at a club?”

“Uh,” Altair said. The noise got quieter and his voice got really low and guilty. “Ezio wanted to go out? He said he needed to do some sinning before he went to church?”

“And you thought to yourself, what a great time to tweet about my internet rival?”

“I just thought of a response. I was trying to be mature about it.”

Desmond snorted. “Mission accomplished, I guess. I don’t think you charmed her, though. She didn’t sound charmed.”

“No, she sounded like someone was twisting her arm. But hey, I’m apparently not all evil so.” Altair was somewhere outside now, it was evident in the sound of the traffic and the hush of other voices. He sighed into the phone. “I wish you’d come out here.”

“Go get laid. Don’t think about me.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know. But go get laid anyway.” Then he made a noise and said good-bye before Altair could make it any harder to manage. After, his apartment was disastrously empty and quiet. Desmond was half-drunk and lonely-as-hell, looking at some angry girl’s website about his idiot kid cousin trying to figure out how the hell he’d gotten _here_. He thought it might have had something to do with his Grandmother and her soft-slim-arms that wrapped around him and her kiss against his temple saying, _don’t let them change you, Desmond._

Or maybe it was the way it was the way her withered-old hand had rested across his when she knew that her time was short and she’d said, _I’m sorry you’re going to get caught in the cross fire, Desmond. You’re a good kid and you deserve better. Take care of my baby boy, hm?_

He’d done a shit job of that. Must be why he was alone two days before Christmas reading some stranger’s apology to Grandma’s baby boy about how she-may-or-may-not have been running a hate blog against him. Must be why the brat bastard cared about this anonymous woman’s opinion enough to stick with something for longer than four days when everything Desmond-and-Ezio had done in the past nine years had failed. 

\--

>   
> **Message From Anonymous**
> 
> Sass Badger,  
> This is Shirley Templar from twitter. You seem like a reasonable person so I’m going to trust you with this bit of information and hope you’re good enough to keep it to yourself. I am one of the cousins, my name is Desmond Miles. That doesn’t seem like a big leap of faith there now that I’ve said it. Worst that happens is you do tell someone and nobody would care. Altair would. I think. Probably shouldn’t tell anyone. Anyway, you won’t find much on me if you go looking for it so I wouldn’t waste your time. I’m kind of drunk right now so forgive the rambling. I sent my idiot cousin to your website. Long story, he made me angry and you were my vengeance. And since we’re all apologizing for doing asshole things I thought I’d apologize to you because I should have known he’d go off and do exactly what he did. I’ve been reading your blog for a while now. So here’s my kudos to you, see because you get a lot of hate for what you’re doing. I don’t know if it matters to you, I don’t know why it would, but he’s a good kid. He has the ability to be good man. Don’t take it easy on him, I mean. Everyone takes it easy on him. Give him hell. Just, not on his birthday. Do me a favor, yeah and leave him alone on his birthday.   
> Thanks.

Malik made a motion at the screen of the laptop they were both hunched forward over. The universal gesture of ‘what are you supposed to do with that’ and Kadar tried very hard to think of something intelligent to say about it.

“Did you try to look him up?” was the best he could manage on short notice.

“Of course I looked him up,” Malik retorted. Because partially, reluctantly, just technically repentant about being the owner of a hate blog or not, Malik was still _Malik_ and everything had to be verified. “I found basically nothing. He is listed as a contributing member on some foundation that the Auditore family endorses or runs or something. That’s basically it.”

That had a decidedly ominous ring about it. From the drunken rambling in the anonymous note sent to Malik from the man there was clearly some kind of unresolved feelings. “So, what are you going to do?”

“What the hell am I supposed to do?” Malik demanded. “Why did he send _me_ a note? I don’t know this guy?”

“He feels guilty for sending his cousin after you?”

Malik turned away from the screen to glare at him for being an idiot. Then he sat back away from the computer entirely and the bed dipped from his weight in such a way that Kadar was leaning all against his side. The two of them just looked at the note. “I mean, it might not even be him. It wouldn’t be the first time some anonymous person impersonated someone on the internet.”

“It just feels like you should reply to it somehow.”

“How? He sent it anonymously!”

Kadar sighed. These were the problems that Malik created for himself. The ones that were very separate from the problems of the average eighteen year old guy. “I don’t know, do whatever you want.” He flopped backward onto his bed and stretched his feet out so they were by the precious laptop. Malik yanked the computer away from him. “Did I hear you talking to that guy Alex earlier?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. He was reading the comment again.

“Is he like your boyfriend?”

“No.”

Kadar pinched Malik’s side and got slapped. “Then why were you talking to him?”

“Sex,” Malik said bluntly. “He wanted to meet up after Christmas to ‘hang out if you’re interested’ which means he wants to have sex. What am I supposed to do with this?” He motioned at the screen again.

“When are you going to tell Mom?”

Malik looked down at him, his chin by his shoulder making him look even younger than he was. There wasn’t anything (nothing) in the world that seemed to scare or intimidate his brother. Malik was made of rock, something heavy and sturdy that had been a reliable _force_ as long as Kadar could remember anything. Off the top of his head there was nothing he could think of that Malik wasn’t capable of doing. But he was ashamed of himself when he said, “I don’t know. I—when I’m ready?”

“Do you think she’ll hate you if you tell her?”

Malik looked down, at his own hands resting in his lap and for a minute-or-two far too long he said _nothing_. His cheeks went all pink and he opened his mouth and then closed it so tight a muscle in his jaw flinched. Kadar sat up far enough to put an arm around him. “I think,” Malik said at last, “that telling her would force her to choose between me and her god and I don’t want,” his voice cracked there, “I don’t want to know who would win.”

Kadar bumped his forehead against Malik’s head and hugged him tighter. “You would,” he said softly.

“But what if I didn’t?” Malik said very quietly.

“No matter what,” Kadar said (very softly, very _sincerely_ ), “I love you.”

“Idiot,” Malik said. “You didn’t tell me what to do about this.” He motioned toward the screen again. “I feel like I should tell the guy I’m not upset but if it’s not him, I don’t want to say anything.”

Kadar reached forward and shut the laptop. Then he tackled Malik down to the bed and hugged him because he couldn’t take the awful wetness in Malik’s voice or the idea that his stupid big brother couldn’t convince himself that their Mother would love him no-matter-what. But Malik was stiff and resistant now and Kadar huffed at him. “Post something about how you can’t reply to anonymous messages. Just a general statement saying you read them but you can’t reply to them if they are anonymous. He’ll know that you’re talking to him.”

“Yeah,” Malik said. “Want to go see a movie?”

“Are you going to get into another six hour conversation with some Jewish girl about Christianity and Santa Claus?” Because Kadar had sat through that one once in his life and he did not want to sit through it again. 

“Not unless I meet a Jewish girl that wants to talk about it. I mean, I can’t promise something like that. Now let me go so I can post my thing and you can find us something worth seeing.” 

“Why do I have to do the hard work?” Kadar whined. He let Malik go and read over his shoulder while he posted a gentle reminder about how he couldn’t respond to anonymous messages. They went to a movie and came home to be harassed by their mother about how she worried when they went out around the holiday—too many crazy people—and they helped her make dinner. 

Late, (like long after they were compelled to join their mother for the evening salat), Malik showed up in his room with his laptop open and said nothing but turned it around to face Kadar. It was open to a single tweet.

son-of-no-one: RT @Shirley-templar: thank you. There I retweeted you, now let me sleep jerk.

“It really was him,” Kadar said. “What the hell have you gotten yourself into?”

Malik shrugged but he was clearly impressed with himself. He left again with his smug smile on his face and Kadar shouted after him to close the door but he didn’t. (Because his brother, much like the man he had decided to concentrate his hate toward, was a jerk.)


	8. Chapter 8

> **Altair**
> 
> Ezio followed me home. I someone to babysit him for a few hours while I go do boring ass shit.
> 
> You are aware that he’s seven years older than you, right?
> 
> He walked into my apartment and started picking things up and asking me if I got them from a thrift store. He actually went into my closet and started crying about my clothes.
> 
> You could use a new wardrobe.
> 
> Says the guy who wears the same dumb T-shirt and hoodie all the time. I just need someone to keep him away from my apartment while I’m gone.
> 
> You could just tell him to get out.
> 
> That is a hospitality violation.
> 
> Besides he’s going to a hotel the day after tomorrow because Federico and Claudia are coming.
> 
> If I babysit Ezio now are you going to make me attend your binge?
> 
> You have to come to the binge. It starts at midnight on my birthday and lasts until someone passes out.
> 
> How is that going to work?
> 
> Look. I’m dropping him off in thirty minutes.
> 
> Fine.

It was forty minutes before Ezio showed up in his apartment with a dreary half-smile and a blurry half-asleep look on his face. He was wrapped up in enough layers that it seemed fairly ridiculous but there was a dust of half-melted snow on his hat. His mouth was pulled down in a frown and the chilly pinkness of his cheeks made the scar (courtesy of de Pazzi) that went over his lip stand out more prominently.

Desmond was laying in his favorite chair with his feet on the table and his hair still wet from the shower he’d taken when Altair’s annoying texts woke him up. “I thought you weren’t coming until the ninth,” Desmond said.

“Ah,” Ezio said. He pulled his hat, scarf, coat, and the jacket under it off and threw them across the back of his couch. Then he pulled his shoes off and came around to flop out on his couch with his socked feet facing Desmond and his two arms behind his head. His hair—almost long enough now to be pulled back in a pony tail—was a static-filled mess around his head. “The baby was cranky. I thought it would be prudent to appease him since I couldn’t convince Federico not to come.” Then Ezio closed his eyes and made a show out of wiggling to a comfortable resting place. “I forgot how cold it was here.”

Desmond laughed at that. “Why would you even try to convince Federico not to come?”

“Eh. I may have mentioned that it is Federico and my Father that you are not on friendly terms with. Altair may have spent the entire past two weeks looking for a reason to fight my brother. I support fighting my brother in general. I fight him often and at length but the baby is not ready for such a fight.” Long, long before Ezio was transplanted into the sunny west-coast warm-weather-and-sunshine he had been born-and-raised in Italy. His family had always had property in California but they did not officially move into that monstrous mansion until Ezio’s baby brother died. It wasn’t obvious (most of the time) because both Ezio-and-Claudia had been raised in this country save for the strength of his accent. In all the years they had known one another it never faltered. 

“You dumbass,” Desmond said.

Ezio opened his eyes, narrow and sly, and smiled at him like he was the idiot. “You will have to tell him eventually, Desmond. Unless you are waiting for someone else to tell him. The lawyers, perhaps? My Father?”

Desmond picked at the lint on his shirt and rolled his eyes at that stupidity of the situation. “I don’t have to tell him anything. The lawyers won’t tell him anything except how much he’s inheriting and if your Father opens his mouth and says something, I’d like to think Altair would have the common sense to give me the benefit of the doubt.”

Ezio laughed at that. “You expect miracles.” Then. “You should tell him, Desmond. Anyway—Claudia is coming to keep Federico under control.”

“You can’t do that?”

“Ha,” Ezio said. He sat up. “I would not even try. I enjoy a fight and while I swore to protect the baby, I believe a man who wants a fight will find one. Better that he finds someone in the family to fight than to take it where it will not be well-received?”

Desmond huffed. Then he used the arms of the chair to pull himself up to his feet. “You have breakfast yet?”

“There is no food in his apartment. When I asked if he intended to go shopping, he said that he does not buy his own food that it just appears when he runs out. Apparently, the same thing happens with his vacuuming and his laundry.” Ezio was amused-by-that, not appalled. Altair had a whole host of employees that came and took care of his apartment while he was not there (and sometimes while he was) but he didn’t seem to care that they existed. Desmond made sure they were paid a healthy salary for their troubles and gave them yearly bonuses around the holidays. “What did you do with it?”

“With what?” Desmond asked. “His food? Nothing.”

“With the money,” Ezio said. He hadn’t moved at all from his comfortable slouch on the couch. 

“Are you asking because you need some tips on how to keep from running yourself broke or is this research?” He hadn’t figured out if he wanted to make his own food or if he wanted to take Ezio out in public and get something already made. Making his own food involved concentrating long enough to cook and taking Ezio out meant dealing with his idiot cousin’s idiot preening and strutting about like a peacock. (But he wouldn’t have cook.)

“I am asking because it has been on my mind. I will not tell anyone; I do not agree with my Father or my brother. I’ve met your father, Desmond. I was in the room with you when he came after Nonna died.” 

Desmond didn’t have faith in many people’s declarations of loyalty—he had no reason to think that highly of anyone—but for all of his other failings, Ezio’s word was not given lightly or often and never broken. “Yeah. I remember.” It was hard to forget things like his Father screaming at him about turning Grandmother against him not even a full hour after she had passed away. “I invested it. I live off the dividends mostly. It gets me this place, all the coffee I can drink and I don’t have to worry about retirement.”

Ezio nodded. “You said something about food?”

“I think we should go out.”

“That is a good idea. There are many beautiful women here that I have not had the chance to introduce myself to.” That is not what Desmond meant. “Later, you have to go with us when I take the baby to buy new clothes. His closet was a wasteland of bad choices.”

Desmond snorted. “Let me go get my shoes.”

\--

son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, is taking me shopping. He was crying in my closet this morning. I think I’m going to document this experience for your enjoyment. (9h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, perhaps you should take a picture of your closet so everyone can understand how pitiful it is. It is 2007 now. (9h ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, @EzioAuditore, maybe you can get your chests waxed and your nails done too while you’re out. (9h ago)

EzioAuditore: @Shirley-Templar, I prefer my chest hair. (9h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, but do the ladies prefer your chest hair? (9h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, I have received no complaints.(9h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, I’m sure you’ve received no compliments either.(9h ago)

It was after midnight and Malik was alone in his dorm room (decidedly not studying as he intended) with his back against the wall and his laptop balanced on his legs in front of him. He was eating saltine crackers because he was starving to death and there was nothing better to eat while he sighed over the new series of tweets. He had managed to find something positive about Altair for January (had to actually go hunting for whatever charitable donations Kadar mentioned) and the exhaustive effort of looking had nearly defeated him. 

Maybe it had been the long bus ride. Maybe it was his Mother’s disastrous tight hug as she crushed him to her thin-little-chest and whispered how much she missed him. At the end of almost three weeks of her nagging about how he needed to do better following her religion (one that he was not sure he even wanted for himself) he felt battered and unsteady. He had hugged her because he wanted to remember what it felt like for her to love him. But he was back-at-college now and Leonardo had come by four or five hours ago to exchange small talk over their holiday breaks and blow jobs.

Malik intended to study and sleep and found himself clicking around the internet and settling on his old fallback of reading Altair’s stupid tweets. There was nothing inherently wrong with the tweets themselves. Just the usual banter between the cousins (with an addition of Desmond’s unusual good humor). He checked the messages on his blog, saw a new comment from Altair himself congratulating him on well-done research.

As if it were that hard to find the foundation that had been created in honor of his sadly deceased younger cousin. As if it were difficult to find a public log of any of his charitable donations when there were innumerous people probably working themselves to gray hair and old age trying to keep up with the damage Altair’s stupid mouth did to his public image. (Although, as far as Malik could tell, Altair did not have anything to do with the empire that his Grandparents had built.) 

Then there was a private message from the man that read:

> Since you’re the leading authority on my life now, I just thought you’d like the chance to catch this breaking news before some paparazzi dick got to it first. New haircut.

There was a link to a picture of the jerk wearing a white tank with a smug looking smile on his face. His head was shaved on the sides and what remained was pulled upward and curved away from his face. Altair looked very clearly pleased with himself (because he intended to bother Malik with it, or because he liked the look, one assumed).

Malik sent him back a message:

> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  I am not a leading authority on your life. I am not a senseless media outlet dedicated to documenting every time you change your underwear. Your new haircut does not concern me.

He did have a post he needed to put up on Thursday and while he had considered trying to explain feminism to the asshole (a decided unpleasant task) but he hadn’t even started on it yet. That sort of thing required cited sources and research and he just hadn’t had the time or inclination to bother with it yet. So he looked at the picture of the grinning jerk and his happy new haircut and wondered what the worst possible thing that could happen if he posted it would be.

It was an hour and a half later and he was two-thirds done complaining about Altair’s burning need to get attention when he got another message from the man himself. Malik saved his document in progress and went to open it (expecting something bitter and mean-spirited).

> ass-badger, you can say you aren’t a senseless media outlet and that you aren’t interested in when I change my underwear but you are the only single person who cares enough about me to create, manage and frequently update a blog dedicated to me without getting paid. You do a better job than whoever the asshole is that manages my actual website. I mean, that guy makes me look good but is he as thorough? Is he as dedicated? Is he online at one thirty in the morning disapproving of me? No. He’s asleep like normal people. I changed my underwear, you know if you want to let everyone know.

And there was another picture of the jerk, looking decidedly more tired than in the first one. Standing in front of what had to be his bathroom mirror (and what a fucking bathroom in the background behind him. The tub could have doubled as a pool if necessary) wearing nothing but a pair of dark boxers with thin white stripes on them. His formerly toneless body was starting to show the very slightest bit of definition and his summer-tanned skin was going pale from too long without exposure to the sun. What was interesting was how he was biting his lower lip and concentrating on the camera he was holding and not grinning up at his own stupid reflection.

“Why didn’t you look like that when I slept with you?” Malik asked the picture. 

He replied to the message:

> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  If you were wearing an undershirt shirt in the last and only wearing underwear in this one, I can only assume you will be entirely nude in the next. Please stop sending me photographs of yourself. I am not interested.

Then he closed his stupid laptop and went to bed because he was too tired to think properly. By the time he woke up the next morning there were six texts from his brother letting him know that Altair had posted a nude photo of himself to twitter with his name attached. When Malik checked the computer all he found was a picture of Altair’s bare legs attached to:

son-of-no-one: look ass badger, I’m naked.

“What an ass,” Malik said. But he didn’t have time to worry about it when his alarm was going off and he had less than an hour to get ready and get to his first class on time.

\--

> ### Shopping With Ezio: a glimpse into the life
> 
> Before I am accused of writing this post entirely out of spite and jealousy, let me assure everyone that my own fashion choices are vastly different than Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s. It is also pertinent to mention that despite the senseless, shameless display of wealth shown in this video and the introduction of six different women that were affectionately referred to as ‘my harem’, this video was quite possibly the most entertaining one offered on Son-of-no-one’s video blog. It was well-edited and genuinely giddy in tone. 
> 
> **(But, let’s talk about what’s actually wrong with it.)**  
>  [Posted: 9 Jan]
> 
> ### Happy Hater Monday #007
> 
> Today’s hate holds the distinction of being the first featured that is not directed at me. While I certainly hold the lion’s share of hate mail I do occasionally received messages and comments that are directed at other members of this website, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad himself or other various people of wealth or varying levels of infamy. Hate is simply unacceptable even if you have an audience that agrees with you, even if you think you are being funny, even if you cite the Bible. Hate is _simple unacceptable_.
> 
> **(For the record, no I don’t agree with you.)**  
>  [Posted: 8 Jan]
> 
> ### Are you feeling lonely again, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad
> 
> If we were in preschool where pulling pigtails is still the most appropriate and useful of flirting techniques, I believe I would be the proud owner of my own bona-fide boyfriend. Surely the attention that I have received from Mr. Ibn-La-Ahad these past weeks is approximately the same as a preschooler trying to make his affections known. If I promise to sit next to you at lunch, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad will you please stop?
> 
> **(For those of you who care to know, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad now has a new haircut.)**  
>  [Posted 4 Jan]

It was probably considered some very specific sort of sin to hack into one’s older brother’s hater blog to post things without his consent. Kadar wasn’t sure what it would be exactly (considered asking one of his Catholic friends who seemed to be some sort of authority on the nature of sins) but he was pretty sure that as soon as Malik found out about it his life was over. It wasn’t that he didn’t love-or-trust his brother (because he did) but that Malik was stubborn as a mule.

Perhaps more stubborn than a mule.

That was why Kadar was helping him out by putting up the very simple, very heartfelt post:

> ### Happy Birthday, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad

Kadar disabled the comments for the post (because it had been proven now that Altair read some if not all of the stupid things people contributed to Malik’s posts) and hid his laptop under his bed as if it would somehow keep Malik from finding out. He was half the country away from him at _college_ and even if he weren’t, the website was his more precious project at the moment. He would be lucky if he made it halfway through first period before the bastard was calling him to yell at him about how he shouldn’t fucking mess with the blog.

Which was true. Kadar shouldn’t mess with the blog. It wasn’t his. 

This obsession in general wasn’t his. He didn’t care enough about Altair to find himself subscribed to the man’s tweets, to watch his exercise videos and his personal video blog. He had bigger worries—like his girlfriend who wanted to date someone else, like his Mother who looked more lonesome now than she had the first time his idiot brother left, or how he was failing French. 

Downstairs, his Mother was humming as she packed his lunch. She smiled at him when she saw him and put her arms up to pull him into a hug. Her hands were so soft against his back and her cheek was sweetly-scented against his. “Are you going to ask your teacher about extra lessons?” she asked.

Kadar sighed. “Yes.” Because the solution to failing French was to take more French than he already had to suffer through. “I also talked to one of my friends about coming over to help me study. She’s good at French.”

His Mother frowned at that pronoun. Mother didn’t like there being girls in the house with horny-natured teenage boys. She had this one frown she used specifically for that occasion and she was sure to mention that she never had such trouble with Malik. No, his saintly big brother understood that girls should not be over at boys’ houses without supervision. “I will be home at five,” his Mother said. “She cannot come before then.”

“Okay, I’ll tell her,” Kadar said. It was six thirty where he was and earlier where Malik was but the bastard still managed to send him a text before Kadar made it on the bus for school. It was a short, sweet _venomous_ message that said: ‘ _Your assistance is not wanted or appreciated. I changed the password, stay off my site._ ’

He stuck his tongue out at the message and dug his stupid French book out of his bag to try to make sense of it before he actually had to commit to asking for assistance from a teacher he didn’t like.

\--

son-of-no-one: twenty one today #thankgodnowicangetridofthefakeID (4h ago)

Son-of-no-one: big plan for the day is getting too drunk to function but just to prove I’m responsible I’m giving my phone and keys to a responsible adult (4h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, I’m touched you think so highly of me. (4h ago)

Son-no-no-one: @EzioAuditore, not you. I meant a real responsible adult like @BestOfThree (4h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, @BestOfThree, she is only responsible because she cannot get drunk.(4h ago)

Altair could not do handstands while he was sober. It was something he was working on but it just took so much _concentration_ and arm strength and he didn’t have either. Concentration he could manage if he really wanted to but who really wanted to hang around upside down? Who wanted to put their hands were their feet were supposed to go?

“Are you aware you’re talking out loud?” Claudia asked him from the side. She was resplendent in pink pajamas, a very impressive figure with bunny slippers and her hair pulled away from her face in one of those inexplicably attractive pony tails with the hair falling half out of place. And she was painting his toenails and he laughed. 

Desmond was sitting on the floor with him, his shot glasses spread out in front of him and an assortment of bottles of varying heights-and-colors all within grabbing distance. Five-ten-fifteen? Minutes ago one of the idiot Auditore brothers had challenged him to a shot pouring contest and Desmond was just _sparkling_ with triumph. But there was liquor spilled all over his floor and full shot glasses. 

Ezio fell over the arm of the couch and rolled onto the floor like he _meant_ to do it, finished up on his belly with his elbows under him and his face in a curling-drunken grin. He looked stupid with his hair around his face in stringy tufts and his red-tongue lapping at his scar. “This is why I love you, cousin. You have found your calling in this life.”

Altair moved forward while Claudia protested loudly and grabbed a few of the shots for himself. Desmond pushed the ones he liked best toward him and Altair raised a glass in thanks. Desmond was drunk too. Not as drunk as him, not as drunk as Ezio (nobody was as drunk as Ezio) but he was all rosy and half-coordinated. It was a sloppy look on his face with his eyes half-closed and his words in country drawl. 

“Happy birthday loser,” Desmond said.

“To killing your liver!” Ezio said from the side.

“To another year of bad choices,” Altair said before he tipped the shot up and swallowed it one long-burn. When he slapped the glass down again there was another to drink and his whole body was feeling loose and warm and wonderful. He was pretty sure he was crawling across the floor, spilling liquor and knocking over shot glasses as he went. His pants and his palms were wet when he slid up next to Desmond and leaned against his side with a stupid-idiot-grin on his face and both of his arms around him. “Thank you for coming. I like having you here.”

Ezio was _howling_ in laughter, rolling up from the floor. “I must piss. Continue without me.” He took a few faltering steps in the wrong direction before Claudia corrected him and then he shouted something in Italian before changing course. 

Desmond leaned back under the weight of Altair’s body (that he simply wasn’t supporting on his own anymore) and patted him on the head the way he had when they were still kids. “I don’t miss your birthday, kid.”

Federico snorted from the side. He was sitting one of the chairs, slouched low enough that his hips were barely still on it and his legs were stretched out in front of him. His hand was tight around the neck of a tall bottle of something clear. “Remember you used to carry the baby by the neck?” Federico said.

Desmond laughed. 

“There is a picture of it in the game room at our house,” Claudia said. 

Desmond put his arm around Altair’s neck and pulled him up against his body. “Like this,” he said, “you wiggled too much to be held any other way.”

Altair shoved him away and got up to his feet. “No wonder I have brain damage.”

Desmond laughed again and reached up to grab Altair’s hand to pull himself up to his feet. They stumbled together, nearly fell over, and managed to stay upright only by the virtue of luck. Federico was taking another long drink while he watched them and the smile on his face wasn’t pleased but _mean_. 

“It is good you are here,” Federico said (to Desmond, not him). He got up too, all slow-concentrated motion and set the bottle down on the floor. When he stood up straight his balance wobbled too far to one side and he had to put both his hands out to steady himself. 

Claudia was unfolding from where she had taken up a space on the floor. 

“Ah Desmond,” Federico said. He reached out with both hands to grab Desmond’s face and leaned in toward him even as Desmond jerked his face away from him. They grappled briefly, Federico not relenting and Desmond’s hands useless against his superior bulk. “I have forgotten what you look like,” Federico said, “let me see you, Desmond.”

Altair kicked him in the knee and Federico shouted in outrage but let Desmond go (so quickly that Desmond fell over backward). “Leave him alone!”

“I wasn’t doing anything,” Federico said back. “I was just looking at him.” Claudia was hovering in the space of Altair’s peripheral vision, assessing the situation but not intervening as Federico smiled all belligerent-and-drunk. He reached out with one lax hand and slapped Altair’s face in the most affectionate manner possible. “Still ugly.”

Oh-Altair was drunk-as-fuck but he managed to throw his whole body at Federico with enough coordination to bash his elbow into the man’s stupid smile. They fell over into the pile of liquor bottles and shot glasses and from the grunt of pain coming from Federico that must have been unpleasant to land on. Altair was going to hit him until he felt like stopping but he’d only just managed to yank himself free from the grip Federico had on his ribs when another set of arms grabbed him from behind.

“Off,” Desmond was saying. He sounded suddenly _sober_ as he dragged Altair up until his feet weren’t even on the floor and hauled him backward. Altair was kicking and shouting about how he wanted to finish what he started (the actual words he used, he wasn’t sure, he just knew the general idea of them). And Desmond threw him toward the kitchen and put two hands against his chest when he tried to get around him. “No!” Desmond shouted at him. 

“Time to go,” Claudia was sing-songing in the other room. Her fluffy-bunny slippers squeaking on the floor as she dragged Federico up to his feet. There was blood on his face and it was the most satisfying thing that Altair had ever seen. 

Ezio returned with a, “what happened! I wasn’t finished drinking.”

“Shut up,” Claudia snapped at him. And then she made a protesting noise just seconds before the sound of slippery feet came rushing toward the kitchen. “Get him, Ezio.” And for once in all the time that Altair had known the family, Ezio did not protest his sister’s demand. He crashed into Federico just six steps short of where Desmond was keeping Altair in the kitchen. “I’m calling a cab.”

Federico’s hands were balled up in fists twisting at Ezio’s clothes and Ezio was _laughing_ like _howling_ as he pinned his big-brother to the floor and tried to shake off the grip he had on him at the same time. Ezio’s hand pressed over Federico’s mouth and it was only after that Altair realized the bastard had been shouting in Italian.

They were idiots, shoving and pushing at one another with peals of laughter and intermittent curses. Altair shoved Desmond out of his way and left the whole assembly of idiots to do whatever they wanted. He went to his room, to the balcony and the frigid-blast of snowy-cold air that shocked all his breath from his lungs. 

He stayed there, wet and drunk and unhappy, until Claudia came with squeaky-slipper-feet. Altair was curled up on one of the chairs in the corner, his feet on the edge of the chair and his arms around his legs. 

“I am taking them now,” she said. Then she reached into the pocket of her long house robe and pulled a box out and held it out to him. “I brought this for you.” Then she hung there for a moment.

“What?” he asked after he took the box and she was still there.

“I want to go with you,” she said quietly. “To Nonna’s grave. I have not been since the funeral. I would love to go with you if you would allow me to.”

“Fine,” Altair said just to get her to go away. When she was gone he kicked the rail and a fresh drifting fall of snow dislodged and floated downward. He was facing the wrong way to hear the idiot brothers fall out into the street where Claudia could pour them into a cab but he heard Desmond’s shuffling steps out toward him. He had a bottle of something clear that he offered to Altair and one of the big blankets from the linen closet to cover up with. Then he sat in his own chair and put his feet—he had shoes on at least—up against the guardrail. “Fuck them,” Altair said.

Desmond hummed in agreement. 

“You should just fucking tell me what this stupid shit is about,” Altair said to him. Because he wasn’t an idiot and he wasn’t a baby. He was twenty-one-fucking years old. Old enough to know what happened.

“I said I’d tell you at Christmas,” Desmond said. 

Altair threw the bottle at him and Desmond ducked out of the way so it cracked against the ground. He kicked the rail again and felt his face getting hot and the eyes getting wet. He was furious and he was _hurt_ and Claudia’s stupid box was stuck against his chest so he threw it at Desmond too. The bitter crawl of tears wasn’t going to be held off by shouting and kicking because he was too drunk now to distract himself. 

Desmond dragged his chair close enough to get his arm around Altair’s shoulders and pulled him up against the sturdy familiarity of his body. He smelled like sweat and liquor and cheese cubes. Altair put an arm around his shoulders and pushed his face against him and cried. Desmond rubbed his back and held on and didn’t say a word. 

“I miss her,” Altair said when the worst sting of pain faded. “The stupid lawyer said I have to go to these meetings at the company. Once a month until I’m twenty five. She thought I was going to take over her business, Desmond. Look at me. What the fuck am I? I’m nothing.”

Desmond just sighed. “Grandma wanted you to have the choice, Altair. She loved you and she wanted you to be happy and taken care for the rest of your life. It doesn’t matter if you take over her empire or if you post stupid videos for the rest of your life as long as you are happy.”

“I don’t want the money. I want her back.” Oh and there he was again with his face getting hot and his throat getting thick. “Why did she die?” It was the question he never asked himself, the one he ignored all-the-time but it was there with a constant nag in the back of his thoughts. His Mom-died and his Dad-died and his Grandmother-died and there was nobody left in the world that _wanted-like-fought for_ him. Desmond had no answer but he pulled Altair back up against his body and kissed the top of his head. 

\--

>   
> ****
> 
> Claudia
> 
> Are you alive over there? I’ve tried texting Altair but he has not answered.
> 
> Hello?
> 
> Hello?
> 
> If you don’t respond I’m going to call. If you’re half as hung over as these idiots you’ll regret making me call.
> 
> Just woke up. What do you want?
> 
> Hungover?
> 
> No, my body magically thrives on consuming whole bottles of Vodka
> 
> You men are such babies. When is Altair going to see Nonna’s grave?
> 
> I don’t know. Let me go find him
> 
> K
> 
> Apparently as soon as I take a shower and change my clothes.
> 
> Can you stop by and pick me up from the hotel if he’s still okay with me going?
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> How’s your brother?
> 
> Ezio is drinking water by the gallon and Federico’s face has changed colors. If the baby did not break his nose, he came very close to it.
> 
> We need to stop calling him the baby.
> 
> You cannot change habits so easily. Altair had been the baby since before I was born. I am not even the baby.
> 
> Yeah but he’s twenty one now and we need to stop
> 
> I will make an effort. Take a shower. 

Altair was not hungover. He had been out in the kitchen eating a bowl of cereal reading the newspaper (which surprised him as he did not know Altair ever got the paper much less read it) when Desmond shuffled out to find him. By the time he finished with his shower, Altair was dressed and sitting at the computer with his chin in his hand while he frowned at the screen.

“What?” Desmond asked. His head was still protesting wildly every time he moved too much. Drinking water hadn’t made an important difference like he hoped it would. (Apparently, he had gotten far more drunk than he thought the night before.) “Some pap post an unflattering picture?”

“No,” Altair said distractedly. “I mean, maybe. Ass-badger said happy birthday.”

Desmond got up off the couch to shuffle over and look at the screen. He wasn’t exactly expecting there to be another diatribe about how annoying Altair was but he was still pleasantly shocked to see the post—title only. It didn’t seem like enough to address so he said, “Claudia wants us to pick her up.”

“Are you ready?”

“Yes.” Desmond went to the massive front closet to find his coat among the many others that had been hanging there as long as Altair had lived here. The coat (hat, scarf, gloves) that Altair did wear was never in the closet. It was always thrown over some piece of furniture. “Maybe you should donate some of this stuff. Might give your girlfriend something nice to say about you.”

“Ha!” Altair said from the front door. “ _Not_ my girlfriend.”

Desmond grinned as he fixed his coat and Altair gave him the finger. They didn’t talk in the car, didn’t talk when they stopped to get Claudia and didn’t stop as they drove out of the city toward the family estate. Grandma had _insisted_ on being buried in the old family cemetery. While it was technically open to public viewings, it rarely allowed anyone without direct clearance in. The men (and women, he guessed) that had been specifically named to care for the estate and the many, many, many companies that made up Grandma’s empire were loyal to a fault. They protected Grandma’s dying wishes with every breath in their bodies in quite possibly the most heartwarming and consistent tenacity that Desmond had ever seen.

The only person in the world with the power to subvert their authority was Altair. While the others might have allowed more people in to see Grandma’s grave, Altair had flat out said that _nobody_ that wasn’t blood-relations (or those five men and women given control over the empire) was allowed. 

“I forgot how pretty the house was,” Claudia said from the backseat when they finally arrived. They got through the gates with minimal fuss. The man who worked in the security house recognized Altair and let him pass with a friendly wave. They parked in the massive turn-around in front of the mansion that spread itself out wide-and-tall in all directions. The front door opened and Mrs. Finch hurried out with her old hands raised high to grab Altair by the neck and pull him down. She kissed him (twenty-two times) while she fussed over him and he smiled with awkward grace. 

“You have to eat,” Mrs. Finch said with finality. “I made breakfast and lunch and you have to eat before you go.”

They ate in the kitchen (where most of the eating had been done) while Mrs. Finch told them about the tours that had started coming through the old house. While Grandma wasn’t the most famous, her house had been an impressive part of the scenery for over a hundred and fifty years. Altair ate quietly and nodded and smiled when appropriate. Claudia asked a hundred questions and asked about getting a tour herself. 

“I forgot how young you were,” Desmond said.

“Yes. I hadn’t turned ten yet,” Claudia said. “I did not visit often because Mama kept me with Petruccio. She sent Ezio a lot because he was always in trouble. I remember coming on Altair’s birthday. I remember the year he had the elephant!” 

“Oh God,” Mrs. Finch said, “that elephant.”

Desmond laughed at the tone in her voice. That elephant had secured the eternal, singular hatred of the entire staff of the house and the eternal love of six-year-old Altair who had to be dragged off it by the collar. 

“I liked the elephant,” Altair said quietly. He had finished eating and was looking at his phone. “I’m going to go. You guys come whenever you’re done.” Then he got up and smiled at Mrs. Finch (that was as close to thanking her as he’d ever gotten) and then excused himself. They were all quiet as he left.

“He breaks my heart,” Mrs. Finch said quietly. “He looks so much older now. I’m not sure about that haircut.”

Claudia was looking down at her plate, the loose drape of her long hair hiding her own indecisive half-frown. She clearly wasn’t sure if she should follow or allow Altair a few moments of privacy. 

“And you!” Mrs. Finch said. She came around to tip his face up with one soft hand under his chin. Her skinny frame a poor representation of the iron will that had kept her chasing after troublesome boys for half their lives. “You are becoming a very handsome man, Desmond. You do not have to wait for Altair to visit, you can come see me any time. Christmas, maybe. I went gray chasing you out of my kitchen and you don’t even visit.”

Desmond smiled at her. “I’ll try to do better,” he said.

“Good,” Mrs. Finch said and then she released him. “Now clear the table.”

He didn’t groan in protest (as he had often as kid) but get up to do what he was asked. The whole affair took about thirty minutes and that gave Altair plenty of time to sit in front of Grandma’s grave and tell her all about the things he’d been doing in the past year. Desmond-and-Claudia found him sitting with his back pressed against some ancestor’s crumbling gravestone with his legs out in front of him and his hands resting limply in his lap. Grandma’s headstone was huge in comparison to those around it. Her name carved into the stone with the greatest of care and a fresh array of flowers covering half of the grave. 

Claudia went over and sat next to Altair (never mind the ground was wet and cold) and leaned against him. Any-other-time the two of them tolerated one another without much grace, but Altair instinctively put his arm around her and she hunched in close to him to make it easy. “Are there always flowers?” Claudia asked.

“Yeah,” Altair said. “She liked them so I told them to— Yeah, there’s always flowers.”

“I wished I had the chance to know her better,” Claudia said quietly.

“Me too,” Altair assured her. And he tightened his arm around Claudia and loosened it again. Desmond reached out to touch the edge of the gravestone (because they all had traditions) and tried to remember his Grandmother in bright-living-colors the way she always said she wanted to be remembered. But the memories were fading now, and most of what he remembered was the smell of the room she died in and the grayness of her cheeks in those last days. The only thing he remembered clearly was the strength of her singing voice.

_Hi Grandma_ , he thought he’d like to say to her (this time like the times before), _still standing._

“My pants are really wet,” Altair said from behind him.

Claudia laughed but tried not to. “Did you bring extras?”

“There’s always clothes in his trunk,” Desmond said.

“That’s true,” Altair said. Then he got up and pulled Claudia up to her feet with him. “I’m going back to the house.” 

Claudia stayed a moment and stood next to Desmond to look at Grandma’s grave. “Desmond,” she said as if she had just been waiting for this exact moment, “I think you know this but in case it needs to be said out loud, I do not agree with my Father or brother. I only just found out everything that happened when Nonna died and only because Federico is a mouthy drunk. They are wrong. I remember very little of Nonna but I have heard enough stories of her to know she would not be easily swayed. I have met your Father. He deserves what he got. You deserve more than you got.”

Desmond nodded. “Thanks.”

“I don’t mean money,” Claudia said as if it were really necessary to say. 

“Thanks,” he said again. “Do you want a minute?”

“No. You?”

“No. I come here in spring,” he said. “It’s nice, if you’re interested. There’s no snow, the trees have leaves. The gardens are starting to bloom.” He turned back toward the house while he talked and Claudia followed with a smile on her face and a half-promise to come out and see it sometime.

By the time they got to the house Altair was changed and climbing the outside of the damn bannister the same he had when he was four years old. Claudia was delighted and Desmond just rubbed his forehead with his fingers with a slight prayer for idiots everywhere.


	9. Chapter 9

son-of-no-one: on the first flight out of here, sick of the US.

There was probably a hundred different ways to explain to Altair how he didn’t need to be purposefully antagonistic. Then there was letting him go without making their last face-to-face (for a few months) interaction sour. Desmond was standing on the sidewalk outside of Altair’s place watching him drop suitcases into the trunk of the cab he’d called to take him to the airport.

“Where are you going first?”

“London town,” Altair said. Because Grandma used to take Altair to London every January for two weeks because she thought it was important for him to see where his Mother grew up. It didn’t hurt that there was a branch of the empire stationed in London. “I figured out that I don’t have to go to the meetings here in New York. As long as I make it to any of the offices and listen to people talk about how things are going once a month, I’m technically abiding by her wishes.” He dusted his hands off on his pants and came around to stand at Desmond’s side.

“What happens if you don’t make it?” Desmond asked.

“Not much,” Altair said. He was wearing a hat and his travelling coat that was significantly nicer looking than his lounging-around-the-city coat. “Like you said, nobody can touch my inheritance. If I miss more than one a year, I think I lose stock shares or something?”

It was staggering how little interest Altair had in maintaining control over the source of his Grandmother’s impressive wealth. Desmond wasn’t interested in maintaining control over it either (but then he didn’t even have the option). “I know you don’t care now but you should keep your stock shares.”

Altair smiled at him like he was worried about nothing. “I’m stupid about a lot of things, Desmond. But this is Grandma’s legacy. Just because I don’t care about it doesn’t mean I’m going to give it up.” Then he pulled his phone out and looked at it. “I’ve got to go. There are countless European ladies waiting for the pleasure to meet me.”

The idiot needed to stop hanging out with Ezio. Desmond rolled his eyes and put his arms up so he could hug him. Altair hugged him and slapped his back a few times for good measure before releasing him and climbing into the cab.

\--

> ### A list of synonyms that also mean no for Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad who seems confused
> 
> 1\. No, an old favorite.  
>  2\. Please stop, if you’re feeling polite.  
>  3\. I’m not interested, if you’re feeling diplomatic.  
>  4\. Stop, when having your wishes ignored becomes annoying.  
>  5\. I have asked you no less than five times to stop sending me pictures of yourself and I’ve tried to be fair and polite about it. I’ve maintained my disinterest, repeatedly. I admit that I did publish one of your first photographs but this does not negate the many following times I rebuffed your attention. I, unlike many others, did not find your tweet about being naked to be funny. It was nothing short of you spitting in my face after I asked you to leave me alone. I understand that you are short on maturity, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad but stop really does mean _stop_. You are not charming. I am not interested. –if character defamation is the only route you haven’t tried yet.
> 
> In other words, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, I do not want photographs of you.

It was not, technically speaking, a proper update but Malik was behind on his reading, he had two papers due in less than a week and his primary complaint about Altair was that the bastard kept sending him pictures of himself with witty remarks attached. Perhaps the most obnoxious one being the one where he had just gotten out of the shower and was wearing a towel around his waist with his hair dried enough to be floppy across his forehead but not yet styled. The comment had been to inquire if his hair ‘looked good like that’ and rather than attempt to address the issue Malik had just written the post.

“What the fuck was I ever thinking?” he demanded at his computer while he was alone and there was nobody to wonder what he was talking about. Altair’s stupid grinning face was winking back at him about the things he could have been thinking on prom night last year. (Ah, but the sad truth was that he hadn’t been thinking last May when he ended up in a hotel room with Altair. He hadn’t been thinking about anything all but how nice it was to be drunk enough to give in and follow any guy that looked willing wherever they wanted to take him.) Malik set the stupid computer on his bed and scratched at his scalp and looked at the books on his bedside table and wanted absolutely nothing to do with them. He wanted nothing to do with anything except sleep and food and sleep and never leaving his bed again. 

It wasn’t depression. Malik wasn’t depressed. He simply did not want to deal with anything in the world. He wanted to be like his roommate whose main goal in life was to get into a fraternity with ‘cool guys’ and ‘hang out and enjoy life’. It wasn’t anything that he’d slowed down long enough to _want_ ever because he had thrown every ounce of concentration and will power he had into school. Now he was here, at his first-choice university with a scholarship that would take him through to graduation and he felt like screaming at everyone that looked at him.

And he was locked in the world’s most pointless battle of wills with a semi-charming asshole who didn’t understand that everyone didn’t love him. If Malik could convince himself to overlook the fact that Altair was a raging hypocrite and a socially ignorant douchebag, he would probably be amused by his stupidity. 

Instead, he got dozens of comments complaining in equal measures about how lucky Malik was to get Altair’s personal attention and how big an ass Altair was for not listening to him when he said no.

Then there was the user near the bottom with the name ‘not-your-brother’ who informed him:

> Maybe if you stopped protesting so much, he’d stop pulling your pigtails.

\--

> message from: the-real-son-of-no-one:  
>  ass-badger, since you asked me so politely to stop sending you pictures of myself and since I do understand that no means no—thanks for writing that post, by the way, my Aunt called me six times to verify I wasn’t forcing girls to sleep with me—this picture is the view from my hotel room in London.

Altair spent the first day laying on his bed watching (telly) and eating room service until he felt over-full and disgusting. He took a bath for two hours (because he could) and sat around naked on his bed enjoying the comforting warmth of the room.

The second day, he put on his nice-boy suit and went to sit in a meeting at the London office. The men (and women) there were polite-to-a-fault as they welcomed him in and told them how fond they were of his Grandmother. He assured them that he was just observing and brought a notebook to take notes with. Fifteen minutes in, he started drawing the people in the office, sketching their defining features with his pen and doodling in the margins.

\--

son-of-no-one: I don’t know how you people with day jobs do it. (2d ago)

son-of-no-one: got stopped in the airport by a woman who thought I was her boyfriend, I wasn’t but whoever he is, he is one good looking guy (1d ago)

son-of-no-one: Amsterdam! Oh you big beautiful city, I am here for you. (1d ago)

son-of-no-one: vetoed the first hotel because hideous Haven’t washed my hair in two days, wearing dirty pants and eating cheeseburgers, let’s see how many lobbies I get kicked out of. (1d ago)

son-of-no-one: RT “@shirley-templar: if you looked more like @EzioAuditore they’d let you in dripping wet, wearing nothing but underwear, eating off-brand potato chips with three prostitutes following you.” No fucking way. Is that true? (1d ago)

bestofThree: @son-of-no-one, it was four prostitutes but otherwise it is true (1d ago)

EzioAuditore: @bestofthree, @son-of-no-one, @shirleytemplar, while I appreciate your sense of humor, the internet and my Mother cannot understand the joke (1d ago)

son-of-no-one: found my hotel. My room is 90% windows and 10% bathtub and everything is perfect. (1d ago)

Altair slept for ten hours. Woke up long enough to take a shower and find something to eat, ended up with an art piece instead of food and took a picture of it with his good camera before eating it and went back to sleep for another five hours.

\--

son-of-no-one: Amsterdam has the best coffee. (8h ago)

son-of-no-one: I have met the coolest person alive. His name is Trey and he works in film (8h ago)

son-of-no-one: He’s American. (8h ago)

son-of-no-one: he’s here for work purposes. But he’s off today. He hasn’t ever been to Amsterdam so I’m going to show him around. (8h ago)

son-of-no-one: Trey likes football because he is American and a guy. (8h ago)

son-of-no-one: he is a gay porn star too. (8h ago)

son-of-no-one: just got hit on by like six women. Trey only got hit on by two. Because I’m prettier. (7h ago)

son-of-no-one: my new porn star friend just got recognized by a fan from France. I need more fans to recognize me by my arms and the sound I make when I orgasm #pornstarproblems (6h ago)

son-of-no-one: chill the fuck out, internet. I am aware that I was a kid when I was on TV. Little Tommy is an adult now and we all need to remember I’m not actually him (6h ago)

son-of-no-one: Trey just did backflips in the street, I wasn’t involved. He did it, I filmed it. (4h ago)

son-of-no-one: I just really like coffee. (4h ago)

son-of-no-one: just met two of Trey’s cast mates, I’m not ashamed to admit they were nice looking guys. (3h ago)

son-of-no-one: one of these guys is straight but they won’t tell me which one. how do you tell the difference between straight guys and gay ones? (3h ago)

son-of-no-one: that was rhetorical don’t answer it. (3h ago)

son-of-no-one: unless ass-badger has an answer. But she doesn’t have a twitter. Why aren’t you there when I need you ass-badger? (3h ago)

son-of-no-one: eating my weight in food with all my new porn star pals. #stillcan’tfindthestraightguy (2h ago)

“Wow,” was the concise estimation of Altair’s fabulous life uttered by his brand new friend as soon as they circled back to his hotel. He looked as classy as Altair, wearing jeans that showed off the curve of his ass and a worn old shirt that was visible under the gaping zipper of his coat. His (black) hair was noticeably cleaner and better kept than Altair’s floppy failed-to-do-anything-with-it hair. “You’re staying here?” Trey pulled at his coat and tried to fix his slouching posture and his conspicuous lack of belonging. 

“Not bad, right?”

“What the hell are you?” Trey asked and he looked promptly embarrassed to have said such a word in the lobby of such a place. The embarrassment made his cheeks pink for several minutes as they continued on their way.

“Rich,” Altair said. (Because it was obvious.) They made it to the room with no hassle—making a poor first impression was key to lowering expectations about his behavior. And being the grandson and sole heir of Phyllis DeCort’s massive empire went a long way towards making him welcome anywhere he went. (People respected money even when they respected nothing else.) 

The room itself wasn’t the biggest suite he’d ever stayed in but the view was spectacular and the deep soak tub was a good enough reason (as far as he was concerned) to spend the money. Trey stepped into the room and whistled, spent a moment or six looking out the many (many, many) windows with both of his hands stuffed in his pockets and open wonder on his face. “This is your everyday life?”

“No,” Altair said. He pulled his coat off and threw it on the chair, kicked his shoes off and flopped back onto the couch that was soft-as-clouds and watched Trey circle around all the windows. “I’m running away from my everyday life. I haven’t been to Amsterdam for like four years.” His whole body still felt loose in the joints and his head was all stuff with cotton candy. He had gorged at dinner and was verging onto uncomfortably full.

“Well if you have to run,” Trey said. He pulled his own coat off and the clingy-worn-shirt under it hugged to his biceps and the enticing width of his shoulders. His hair was black-as-pitch and there was the day-old scruff of not shaving making his cheeks and jaw look shadowed even in the light. His lips were pulling up in a fond smile as he looked at Altair. “This is my first trip to Amsterdam.”

“Enjoying it?” Altair asked. “Why did you say you were here?”

“Company wanted to shoot porn in exotic locations. I wasn’t about to complain.” He sat on the chair facing the couch and bent down to take his shoes off. “It wasn’t like I was going to make it over here free-of-charge any other way.”

Altair laughed at that notion. “It’s not free if you’re working.”

“But I got paid to sight see.”

“And fuck someone,” Altair put in. “Isn’t it weird fucking people and getting filmed? I read somewhere that it takes like hours. How do you even fuck someone for hours?”

Trey laughed. He stretched his legs out in front of him and put his feet on the low table as he leaned back in the chair. Every part of his body (trapped under his clothes) was sinew-and-muscle as sleek and powerful as a wild animal. Except his face because he was cute-not-handsome and there was far too much good humor in his eyes. “It was probably weird the first few times. Its weird meeting fans sometimes but mostly it’s not a big deal.”

“Are you bottom or top?” Altair pulled his leg up and put his heel on the edge of the couch, had his hand laying across his belly and the other one up behind his head. From the vaguely amused lilt of Trey’s grin the question wasn’t rude so much as ridiculous. (But that was okay, Altair was ridiculous a lot.) “What?” he said.

“You really have never seen any of my stuff?”

“No,” Altair said. “Are you any good?”

Trey wasn’t pink-blushing anymore but licking at the corner of his lip and looking in the general direction of Altair’s whole body but not his face. His eyes were dark and his lips were so fucking pink they looked like they tasted like candy. The room wasn’t hot but there was a surge of heat that kept running up-down his body and settling low and urgent in the bottom of his belly just above his dick. “People seem to like watching me get dicked.”

Oh-and-what-an-idea. “Is that what you’re doing here? Getting dicked in Amsterdam?”

Trey moved, all-at-once, as if he were only waiting for some magical word to spring forward into action. His hand spread across Altair’s knee and slid upward along his thigh, pushing his leg out to the side as Trey crawled onto the couch, right up between Altair’s legs. (Altair’s whole body was pulsing with the sudden feeling of inspired _want_ so suddenly he couldn’t keep himself from moaning). Trey’s hand was big pressed against his neck and going down to his chest, getting bunched up in his shirt and then coming back up to pull him forward. “Is that what you’re doing here?”

Altair wasn’t following that conversation but he understood the kiss. The sweet-and-innocent brush of lips that made his eyes flutter close. He opened his mouth because he wasn’t sweet or innocent. Trey kissed him harder the second time, wet tongue and leftover dinner-tastes as his hand gripped at his thigh and their bodies got closer-and-closer together. For a brief spattering of seconds, long enough to _want_ this so badly it made his body ache, Altair thought about nothing in the world but dragging this man flat against him and fucking him. It-would-be-so-fucking-good, all that hard muscle and broad shoulders and the breathy-pants-and-bitten-moans because Trey looked like a moaner and Altair wanted to know exactly what they sounded like.

Then there was the grind of Trey’s hips against his, the sudden reality of a hard dick pressing against him and Altair arched up, kicked his foot against the couch and threw himself backward. He fell over the arm of the couch and knocked his head against the floor. “What are you doing?” he shouted at Trey. “Fuck.”

“I thought—”

“Well you were wrong!” Altair shouted at him.

Trey’s face didn’t look pissed but sad. “You’ve been flirting with me all day.” It wasn’t supposed to be accusation (Altair didn’t think) but the gentle reminder of fact.

“Don’t you get fucked enough without assaulting straight guys?” Altair demanded.

“You were into it.”

“I’m high!” Altair screamed. “I’d be into anything. Fuck you. Get out.” He picked up the bastard’s coat and his shoes and threw them at him. Trey didn’t catch any of it but had to pick up again and went to the door with an obvious erection in his pants and a growing fury on his pretty face. “Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“Why would I?” Trey demanded back as Altair slammed the door on him. 

\--

son-of-no-one: PSA gay guys, I’m not interested. Keep your dicks to yourself. (2m ago)

son-of-no-one: this is exactly why I can’t hang out with gays. Every time I think we’re just talking, turns out their trying to dick me. (2m ago)

son-of-no-one: I’m not a piece of meat, I’m not gay, I’m not interested, I don’t want your dick so stop trying to make me take it.(1m ago)

“Fuck,” Desmond said at his phone that buzzed to alert him to the arrival of new (stupid) tweets from his idiot kid cousin. He was trying to make something to eat before he headed to the bar and moved the pan from the hot burner to a cold one before he dialed Altair’s phone number. It rang six-times before the asshole answered it.

“He attacked me!” Altair shouted at him.

“I don’t care,” Desmond said back. “You are digging yourself a hole that you will not be able to get out of. For the love of _God_ put the phone down and if that doesn’t motivate you, how about you think about what Grandma would think if she read your stupid shit.”

“Fuck you,” Altair said.

“Put the phone away and go to sleep.”

“You know what, you didn’t want to come on this trip so why don’t you just stay there in New York worrying about your New York problems and leave me to worry about mine, huh?” Which meant that Altair was probably drunk or high and far too past the point of being able to care about logic and common sense. 

“Fine,” Desmond said.

Altair wasn’t satisfied with that. “He did attack me.”

“I don’t care, it’s not a New York problem.” Then he hung up on him and held his breath for ten minutes waiting for another idiot tweet. There weren’t any and Desmond still didn’t relax as he finished his dinner. He was sitting at his little table contemplating how his life had taken these drastic turns when he got a text from Claudia saying: _’at this point, I agree with my brother. Should we try to get Altair out of the closet or let him work it out on his own?’_

Desmond had absolutely no answer for that. He just sighed and tried to work out a way to answer the question. ‘ _No good ever came from forcing something._ ’ Claudia didn’t answer him and Altair managed not to post anything else stupid before Desmond went to work.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I just saw the tweets, Malik.
> 
> Are you okay?
> 
> I’m worried. I’m not exaggerating. Answer me.
> 
> I’m fine, Kadar.

It was surprising how much anger could be conveyed in three written words. Kadar had known Malik all his life and seen him every shade of anger he thought his brother was possible of experiencing but he had the distinct feeling that everything he’d seen up to this exact moment paled in comparison to the anger that must be imploding inside of him right-that-second. They were separated by multiple states, a time zone and the fact that Malik had started shoving him as far from the blog as he could manage. (Mostly by ignoring everything Kadar said to him, sometimes by flat out telling him to leave it alone.)

Kadar was supposed to be writing a paper but he sat at his desk, thinking about what kind of acidic vitriol Altair had earned himself this time. (Thinking about whether his brother was going to be furious because Altair was an asshole who needed to catch a clue or something worse.) He found himself refreshing the Sett’s homepage waiting for his brother’s rebuttal long after he was supposed to have finished writing his paper for class.

\--

> ### An Open Letter
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  On behalf of every woman that you have ever engaged in a conversation with the sole purpose of having sex, on behalf of every woman that you have ever looked at as nothing more than a sexual object, on behalf of every woman that you have ever talked crudely about, on behalf of every woman you have ever belittled with your condescending approval, on behalf of every woman you have ever made to feel pressured to have sex with you, on behalf of every woman you have ever ‘tried to give your dick to’ when it was not wanted, on behalf of every woman you have rated by her physical looks and not her whole person, on behalf of _every_ woman, I have exactly one thing to say to you.
> 
> Fuck. You. You hypocritical little dick.
> 
> Sincerely,  
>  Sass-Badger

Altair woke up in the afternoon feeling like overused sandpaper and spent a while soaking in the fabulous tub before he escaped all water-pruned and sleepy. He put the bathrobe on, ordered some food and went to find his computer. The night before was a confusing mix of images and sounds, blurred and sideways in his head. His phone wasn’t next to his bed (as it usually was) and he couldn’t remember where he put it.

He sat at the desk (not on the couch) and went to his twitter first, felt a vague shameful twist of something when he read the full of the days tweets and bit his lip while he tried to work out if he should apologize or ignore it. As a general rule he just ignored whatever he put up because he meant it (as a general rule) and there was no reason to pretend he didn’t. Still indecisive he went to the Sett’s page and read the post. It was not as elegant as the ones that came before but he was pretty sure the point wasn’t to explain why he was wrong. He closed the computer again and went to lay on the couch (didn’t think about Trey climbing up over his body, didn’t think about the feeling of his five-o-clock shadow scratching at Altair’s cheeks or how big and strong his hands had been on him). He didn’t move again until the food arrived.

\--

son-of-no-one: pro-tip, kids, don’t do drugs. You’ll say stupid shit and everyone will hate you.

Malik was so angry he was grinding his teeth in class, walking fast with his head down across campus and banging things around in the library. He was angry enough he couldn’t pretend to care about Kadar’s problems and he had turned down Leonardo’s offer to go get something to eat. He’d ignored his Mother’s phone call (for the first time in his life) and had glanced at his idiot roommate and the girl he had brought back to the dorm with him. Normally, Malik left and let him do whatever he wanted but one glance sent his bastard little roommate running for the hills.

He was so angry he felt like his arms and his chest were shaking apart at the joints. His heart was knocking into his ribs and his head was _aching_ from his skyrocketing blood pressure. 

It was so stupid. It was so _stupid_. He should have just put Altair out of his head as soon as he woke up alone in the hotel room. He should have just pulled himself together and pretended like the whole damn thing hadn’t happened. Pretended he hadn’t gotten drunk and followed the jerk back to a hotel room.

Oh-but-Altair had been drunk too (Malik remembered that in catches and pulls of time). Altair had been plastered with his stupid smile and his pink-cheeks and his bawdy laugh while they jumped on the bed like kids. Altair had kissed _him_ with liquor and pizza sauce on his tongue. 

It was so stupid because Malik’s whole life was ruined-and-not but Altair was skating by on ignorance and denial. Malik couldn’t even look at his Mother’s _face_ without knowing what he’d done and what her religion thought of him and Altair was getting high in Amsterdam and hanging out with porn stars and _complaining_ about it. 

Malik had seen him under-the-influence, had seen and felt and tasted his body and _knew_ (beyond a shadow of a doubt) exactly how big a liar the asshole was. Altair’s whole body arched into being touched when he was drunk and his fat-lips had opened in low-moans and whiny-hisses. 

That asshole had broken Malik’s iron resolve to ignore-and-forget that he was gay. And that _asshole_ couldn’t even pretend to be sorry about it. But there was this:

> message from: the-real-son-of-no-one  
>  I doubt that you care enough to know what happened since you’ve already made up your mind, but if you’re interested: I spent the whole day hanging out with the guy and invited him back to my hotel to hang out and watch TV. I can see how that would be misleading but it doesn’t change the fact that I, like all the women you protested on the behalf of, don’t like people assuming I’m interested in them when I’m not. 
> 
> Also, I don’t treat women like sexual objects, I don’t talk to them just to have sex with them and I don’t pressure anyone to have sex with me. I’m a lot of things but I’m not that.

Malik didn’t answer him but wrote up a primer on apologizing and put it up on Thursday so the jerk could maybe-learn-a-thing-or-two. 


	10. Chapter 10

> FROM: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Me [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> Hey, guess what this is an _email_ that I’m sending from the computer lab at _school_. And you may be asking yourself WHY IS KADAR SENDING ME AN EMAIL because he has a PHONE and he can just text me! That is an excellent question and I have an excellent answer for it. You know, if you can take five minutes away from your personal crusade against some idiot with no bearing on our lives. 
> 
> See, what happened was I have this girlfriend, Sara, who wants to go out with the horny captain of the football team because we’re _teenagers_ and despite what you and Mom think, normal teenagers are obsessed with sex. It’s something that we think about a lot. So my girlfriend wants to make out and hold my hand and put her hands under my shirt and you know what—I don’t mind that at all. But every time she comes over to the house, Mom has to be there because Mom has this thing about no sex before marriage.
> 
> That’s hilarious, right?
> 
> So my girlfriend has been _torturing_ me with all this touching in the hallways at school and kissing behind the school at lunch time. I’m starving to death, Malik because I never have time to eat anything. I can’t eat because every day at lunch I’m dragged outside to kiss my girlfriend and I don’t even mind that. But then she’s coming over to the house with all these _intentions_ and she’s supposed to be teaching me French, right, but she doesn’t want to teach me French, Malik. SHE WANTS TO FRENCH ME WITH HER TONGUE but MOM WON’T LEAVE THE ROOM. Last week she sat in the living room reading the Quran and making disapproving noises because we were both sitting on the couch at the same time. 
> 
> I know you’re gay and that’s all great for you and what not. But Sara is so hot, Malik. Just imagine she was whatever your ideal guy is and that’s how much I want her. I’m dying. At this rate I’ll need a job so I can go buy lotion for myself because I’m pretty sure Mom is going to ask me what bizarre skin disease I’ve developed that I need so much lotion and tissues!
> 
> But back to the point here. So Sara says to me, yesterday, that she can’t wait to come over after 5 because she has stuff to do and I ask Mom if maybe she can’t come over just a half hour earlier so we can do our stupid French thing. And Mom says she can as long as I remember the rules. Sure I remember the rules. Do you remember the rules, Malik?
> 
> NO KISSING GIRLS MALIK. NO KISSING ANY GIRLS. Which should be a piece of cake for you, right?
> 
> So Sara comes over and she’s wearing this see-through shirt and there’s her bra. And it has little pink cherries on it and tiny lace all around it and her breasts are right there. I’m trying to remember how to conjugate verbs in French but I don’t care because I can’t think about anything but how her shirt is _see-through_. Sara is like _purring_ French at me and I’m just a stupid, weak-spirited sixteen year old boy, Malik. She starts kissing me and what am I going to do? I kiss her back. 
> 
> WHAT ELSE COULD I HAVE DONE? 
> 
> Then it’s not just kissing anymore. She has her hands in my shirt and then I don’t have a shirt on and she’s in my lap. She put my hand on her breasts, Malik. _Under her shirt_. It was the most amazing experience of my life. It was just so soft and perfect and—
> 
> MOM WALKED IN.
> 
> Mom walked in. She shouted at me in front of Sara, sent her home and called Sara’s parents. That wasn’t bad enough so she took away my phone and my laptop and my ability to leave the house. I have to clean the stupid shed in the back and the whole house. I have to write her an essay on moral values and the importance of chastity. Yeah? Okay. All of that sucks but I could have dealt with it. No, what really iced the cake was the four hour lecture.
> 
> Four hours of Mom telling me all the ways that YOU, MALIK are superior quality to me. How you never tried to sleep with a girl. How you understood the importance of values. About how she NEVER HAD THIS TROUBLE with MY BIG BROTHER. 
> 
> Four. Hours. Malik.
> 
> Let me recap for you: I have no phone, no laptop, no girlfriend (she dumped me, surprisingly), no freedom. But, you’re the perfect son. So congrats on that.

Malik was sitting in Leonardo’s room (because his was full of people having sex) working on the finishing touches of his research paper when he got the E-mail. E-mails from Kadar were nearly non-existent (because they had phones, as his brother so aptly pointed out). “Well,” he said to the screen.

Most of the time, Mother was the most reasonable person Malik had ever met. She was tolerant in the face of a great deal of stupidity (such as the time she came home and found Malik had shaved Kadar’s precious little head and defaced him with permanent marker) but there were things that she simply could not accept. (Most of them Malik now represented rather well.) 

More importantly, Kadar was _sixteen_. 

Leonardo came in while Malik was rereading the tirade. He threw his bag on the floor by his bed and flopped across the end of it with a sweetly-curving smile and a curiously raised eyebrow. “You always make the most interesting faces at that computer.”

“I always get the most interesting mail,” Malik said. 

“I have, in my possession, an invitation to a party that promises to have loud music and alcohol. I’m not sure your stance on loud music but I have been quietly assuming you are against alcohol based on the statistical likelihood that you were raised in a Muslim household.” Leonardo tugged a folded bit of paper out of his pocket and spread it out across his belly. 

“No I don’t drink,” Malik said.

“Fair enough. Would you like to go with me and make sure I return moderately unmolested?” Leonardo smiled at him in such a way to make the phrase ‘moderately unmolested’ seem contradictory to his present wishes. “Even if you do not imbibe, I’m sure they’ll be something or someone there that will be as interesting as that computer you’re frowning at.”

Leonardo thought this because Leonardo did not know Malik was in an antagonistic relationship with an asshole celebrity that was just featured on three paparazzi-based news programs for cavorting around Europe running into beautiful people and saying stupid things. 

“Sure,” Malik said. “But you need to define ‘moderately unmolested’.”

Leonardo just smiled again.

\--

son-of-no-one: learned how to say dirty things in German today. Thank you to the beautiful and lovely Gerde (5m ago)

son-of-no-one: sorry, its spelled Gerdie (3m ago)

Gerdie kissed him again because she was the sort of girl that liked that best. Her lipstick was a smear across his face at this point. Her body was a naked arch of perfect-skin and attractive-curves against his. “I could teach you more in my language,” she said to him.

“Yeah?” he asked. He thought about telling her that he knew a fair amount of German (and some French, and some Italian and some Arabic) but he didn’t want to interrupt the whole sex-translator thing she was working. So he let her whisper in his ear and repeated she said. 

\--

> FROM: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Me [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> No, I understand. You’re at ~*college*~ now. Who has time to write their idiot kid brother back when they could be going to drunken orgies and having casual sex with a variety of guys? Which is great for you.
> 
> Meanwhile, I’m over here dying of boredom and writing essays for my Mother. Listening to her disapproving noises. Oh and now the whole school knows that My Mom got Sara grounded for me trying to have sex with her. Which is embarrassing for her and instead of telling the truth about how she was the one that was all over me she’s making it seem like it was my idea.
> 
> I’m not saying I wouldn’t have done it. I’m saying that I didn’t actually do it. It was her tongue in my mouth and she pulled my shirt off. That doesn’t matter though because I am apparently an embarrassing jerk that was all over her and then didn’t defend her when my Mommy started shouting. 
> 
> Two things: 1. She was all over me. 2. I did defend her when Mom started shouting. Mom didn’t shout at her; she shouted at me. _In Arabic_.
> 
> Oh and just to make the whole thing a touch more terrible, some jock asked me if I had to trade chickens for a girlfriend ‘in my country’. I was BORN HERE YOU IGNORANT LITTLE ASS. I didn’t say that to him because I didn’t think he’d appreciate it. I told him the number of chickens depended on how good looking the girl was. I told him sometimes we even throw in goats.
> 
> He thought I was serious.
> 
> So now I’m a coward little Mama’s boy who was all over his girlfriend who trades goats for sex and still has no phone, no laptop, no life and SOMEHOW is still inferior to you. Could you just do me a solid and accidentally send Mom a picture of you making out with random guys because if she doesn’t stop I’m going to crack.
> 
> I’m not serious. Don’t lecture me. I wouldn’t tell anyone your stupid secret.

Malik was at (Jacob?)’s house waiting for Leonardo or Jacob to wake up (it was already 11 in the freaking morning), using Jacob’s (he was reasonably sure that was the guy’s name) laptop to check his E-mail because he was waiting to hear back from a professor about the assigned project.

While Kadar was prone to hyperbole, the startling accuracy of his assumptions about what Malik was doing were frightening. He considered asking him if he knew what the winning lottery numbers were. Instead he sat there in his pants that smelled like day-old liquor rubbing the hickey on his neck thinking about how maybe he shouldn’t participate in threesomes with drunken people.

But, Jacob was hot and he hadn’t been drunk when he asked Malik back to his place. He hadn’t been drunk when he smiled all sexy and secretive and told him how much he liked the tone of Malik’s skin and his eyes. 

Still. Malik turned toward the sound of Leonardo yawning as he escaped from the bed they’d all fallen asleep on. He was scratching his belly as he padded out toward the bathroom and stopped only long enough to frown at him. “Perhaps I’ll invent a way to make your brain compatible with wi-fi so you never have to stop frowning about the internet.”

“Ha,” Malik said. “You almost ready to go? I have to meet my project partner at one.”

Leonardo frowned and looked out the window in an attempt to guess the time of day. “I was hoping for some morning-after blow jobs and breakfast but if it’s important to you that we go, I can forgo that tradition this one time.”

“It’s only eleven,” Malik said.

Oh-and-Leonardo’s smile was so sharp it could have cut something. He winked at him as he continued toward the bathroom. 

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Exactly how many girls have you slept with in the past two weeks?
> 
> Uh, let me count
> 
> Do you have a tally? Please tell me you don’t have a tally.
> 
> No I have their pictures on my phone. 10. The 11th one didn’t progress past oral sex because she didn’t go home with strange guys just you know sit on their faces in the back room of bars.
> 
> First, that counts as sex. Second, you take pictures of the girls that you sleep with and keep their photographs? That is such a dick move.
> 
> Why is that a dick move?
> 
> People take my picture all the time.
> 
> Once again. You are famous.
> 
> Well, I’m a fan of every girl I’ve slept with
> 
> Want to come to Copenhagen with me?
> 
> I thought you were in Germany.
> 
> I am. Then I’m going to Copenhagen. I’ve never been and this girl Ada told me that it was a lovely city.
> 
> No I do not want to go to Copenhagen with you but thank you for the offer.
> 
> Your loss. The number is about to go up to 13.
> 
> Use condoms, Altair.
> 
> I’m not stupid. Wish me luck

Desmond didn’t wish him luck but Altair didn’t need it anyway. Not for the night. He had skill which meant he didn’t need luck. It was the morning after that was the tricky part. He hadn’t mastered the morning after when everyone woke up with their own confusing expectations and he had to extract himself from their perceptions of his desire for them.

Altair did desire them. But briefly. So he woke up on a bed with the two women from the night before sprawled all across him and had to wiggle to his freedom without waking them up. It was surprisingly simple in comparison to some of his other less successful escapes. He found a bathrobe and pulled it on before he left the bedroom part of the suite and went down to the living room. 

His bags were upstairs so he couldn’t just make a run for it. (Well he could, because they couldn’t steal anything but his clothes really.) So he went for the slightly classier reaction and ordered breakfast for everyone. But he called them by the completely made up names (on purpose, because it worked) and they left with offended sneers.

\--

> FROM: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Me [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> At this point, even if you do reply to me I’m just going to consider you a dick so feel free to just keep ignoring me. I hope you’re miserable. I sincerely hope that you get some embarrassing fungal infection on your penis.

Malik huffed at the computer and got a withering glare from another student sitting at the same library table as him. He’d made a promise to himself that he was absolutely not going to check his mail or address any internet-based obligations until after he’d finished his project. It had taken him a day and a half and the stress of staying away from the internet that long had driven him crazy. Not as crazy, it seemed, as Kadar.

The next e-mail was:

> FROM: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Me [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> My life is balls, Malik. I’m failing French. All the jocks have decided to start picking on me. So I’m failing PE because I’m not going to walk into the locker room and have a bunch of sweaty overly-masculine types assault me over the supposedly offended honor of some girl. Mom is on my case because she feels like I’m exaggerating and if I’m not she wants to go to the principal about the problem. Which would great because I’m already known as the kid with the embarrassing Mom.
> 
> Oh, right and my perfect big brother who is better at English, being a moral person and a fine upstanding citizen is ignoring me.

If Kadar got any more pitiful, Malik’s ability to take him seriously might have fractured and he wouldn’t even be able to fake the sincerity required to care about him and his obviously very troublesome problems. He sat back in his chair and stared at the e-mails, tried to figure out a way to reply to them that was encouraging without being condoning. Forget their Mother’s objections based on her own beliefs, Kadar was _sixteen_ and too damn young to have sex with anyone.

His alarm to head to his next class went off before he found the words to convey his meaning so he packed up his stuff and left the e-mail unanswered again.

\--

EzioAuditore: I don’t think I’ve ever been to Denmark. It’s been nice so far. Everyone has been lovely.

son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, How can you forget if you’ve been to a country?

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, it is the peril of frequently travelling with my family. Until a few weeks ago I didn’t realize I’d been to Russia.

son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore: well, we will simply have to make this trip memorable.

The most important truth about Ezio was that he simply did not like being cold. His presence in Copenhagen in _February_ was an anomaly in his absolute avoidance of cold. In fact, he showed up in Altair’s hotel room wearing his coat and gloves and scarf and hat and didn’t take them off until his cheeks went from red-chapped from the cold to pink-from-heat. His distaste for the weather (why are we here, Altair? Why couldn’t you have gone for a tropical six month vacation?) did not deter him from seeking out the best bar in the city.

They were fabulously wealthy men in fine clothes buying drinks for pretty girls and dancing with whoever they wanted. Altair was in love with some woman with dark-dark-hair and sweetly-pink lips that danced close to him and put her hands all over his arms and chest. Ezio was elbows deep in a gaggle of girls that fawned over his face and his smile and his hair. 

\--

> FROM: Malik [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Me [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> Before I say anything else, thank you for keeping my ‘stupid secret’ even though you could easily have just said it and taken all the heat off yourself and put it on me. I am honestly humbled by this. I sometimes feel I do not deserve a brother as loyal as you have always been to me. 
> 
> However, you are sixteen years old and you do not need to be having sex with anyone. Unless you’ve somehow gotten a job or taken up shoplifting there is no way you have condoms. Mother is so adamantly opposed to premarital sex that there is literally zero chance she would buy them for you or give you the money to buy them for yourself. I realize that given my own spectacular stupidity in sleeping with an asshole while drunk I have very little room to extend any kind of advice on the matter but you are too young. It seems like the most important thing in the world right now but it won’t always. But if you get a girl pregnant that is forever.
> 
> Second, when or if you decide that you want to have sex despite the objections of people who want the best for you, remember to use condoms. Absolutely do not have penetrative sex with anyone without a condom ever. Do not. 
> 
> If you did not want to be considered a coward-Mama’s-boy who trades goats for sex you need to figure out how to unwind this problem before it worsens. If you can’t come up with any way to stop the inevitable deluge of comments and stares, then wait until something else scandalous happens and then people will forget about you. I, obviously, was not there to see and therefore do not know for sure but I’m fairly sure that your ex-girlfriend, Sara, was most likely humiliated to be discovered, yelled at and then to have her parents called. I’m not sure if you have already done so but apologizing to her would go a long way toward recovering your reputation.
> 
> Most important, if you feel that you are in actual danger from the jocks you _need_ to take the issue to the office. Failing class because you’re frightened that you’ll be beat up or bullied in the locker room is a legitimate problem but the solution is readily available. Your safety is more important than any social pressure to keep the secrets of assholes who would hurt someone for the fun of it. 
> 
> I wasn’t trying to ignore you. I do care about what you’re going through. My responses aren’t always immediate because I do not always have the time to answer you. That doesn’t mean I’m not reading and thinking about you and what you have said.
> 
> Things will get better, Kadar. 

Of course Malik would think that. Malik had sailed through high school with the universal love of every teacher and general disinterest in fitting into any social group that would not allow him a better chance to get into the university of his choosing. Kadar didn’t know for sure but he was a hundred percent sure that Malik had started planning his education plan in kindergarten. He knew for a fact that Malik had broken down into hysterics when he was about ten because he got a C+ on one of his math tests. Kadar remembered their Mother fretfully trying to figure out if she should comfort Malik or scold him for doing so poorly on a test. In the end, the misery that Malik put himself through had pushed her to encouragement.

Kadar understood that he was Mr. Al-Sayf the lesser. He’d known that almost all his life. The only person who looked at him and didn’t see it was Malik himself and sometimes Kadar had to remind himself that no matter what the teachers, their Mother and Kadar thought: Malik thought they were equals.

But that didn’t mean Kadar wasn’t still pissed about hearing it. That he wasn’t still angry about having to sit at the table while his mother paced and fussed at him about how ‘Malik-would-never’ when he knew for a fact that his brother was giving it up to anyone that asked and met a bare minimum standard for cleanliness and personality. 

Mostly (primarily), Kadar was embarrassed and it just would not _end_. Following the advice Malik gave him seemed like the only plan that (anyone) had so he found himself sneaking up to where Sara was standing outside of school waiting for her Mother to pick her up. He was fists-in-pockets, shoulders ducked low and miserable when she finally noticed him standing there.

“I’m sorry,” he said before she could say anything.

Sara smiled but it was a pitiful attempt. “I’m sorry too,” she said. “You could have told everyone whatever you wanted and they would have believed it but you didn’t.”

Kadar shrugged. “Could you get the jocks to leave me alone?”

“I can try,” Sara said. It wasn’t much and Kadar wasn’t even sure that she would actually try. But at least she hugged him one-more-time and kissed his cheek. “You are so cute,” she said when they parted. “My parents told me I had to dump you. I figured your Mom said the same to you. I miss hanging out with you though.”

“Yeah,” Kadar agreed. “Me too—you know, hanging out with you.” 

But Sara’s ride arrived and her Mother was giving Kadar a stern death glare as if he were the one crawling into people’s laps and ripping their shirts off. (He wouldn’t, partially because he was out of his depth and partially because Malik would probably have materialized next to him just to slap him on the head if Kadar had tried.) “Bye,” Sara said softly before she left him.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> I’m officially taking bets on which one of you is likely to get some girl pregnant or contract a venereal disease first.
> 
> Shame on you, cousin! 
> 
> I am much too careful to get a woman pregnant. I am very fond of sex but I am not fond of children.
> 
> I’m sure the fact Mama Maria would make you marry the girl also has some bearing on your choices.
> 
> Yes that as well.
> 
> If I get married one day I’d like it to be because I love the woman.
> 
> That’s noble
> 
> How is he?
> 
> Currently he is sleeping. I would be sleeping as well after the amount of noise coming from his bedroom. He brought home a screamer.
> 
> That is not what I meant
> 
> I have been here four days, he has had sex with seven women in that time. I admire his stamina.
> 
> Well at least he’s getting plenty of exercise
> 
> Yes, at least there is that. Do not worry about him so much, Desmond. He is well.
> 
> Yeah, sleeping with every woman in Denmark is clearly a sign of good mental health.
> 
> It is a sign of a healthy twenty one year old boy. 
> 
> Stop worrying, enjoy your vacation from him.
> 
> Fine.

Perhaps the only thing about Altair that still surprised Ezio (or that just simply did not make sense when set against the rest of his charming personality) was his honest, unironic, shameless love of art. The man who could barely maintain interest in any conversation that was not about himself, women or lurid stories, managed to sit for hours looking at the same painting.

“What could you possibly be looking at right now? What else is there to see on this painting?”

Altair was just sitting there with a non-expression, folded paper program in his hand as he looked at the art. He drew a breath in through his nose and turned to look at Ezio as if he had simply forgotten that he was there. “You don’t have to stay.”

“I’m definitely not going to any more art museums with you if this is what you do.” Because Ezio did not have the patience for it. “I remember you whining every time we went to museums when we were kids.”

Altair snorted. “Museums are boring. Art, however, is not. We can go.” But he didn’t want to because he was looking back at the painting the way lovers looked at one another when they’d rather stay together than separate. Ezio did want to go, he wanted to leave and go meet people and do things but Altair was never quiet and never at peace like this.

So Ezio put his hand out and shoved Altair back into his seat. “No, we’re going to stay a while. They’ll kick us out soon.” And Altair wilted back into place without a single protest.

\--

> FROM: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Me [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> I can’t help but make the observation that while you’re complaining you don’t have enough time to answer me, you haven’t managed to put a late post up on your hater blog since you started it last summer. It’s always nice to know where I rank on the scale of importance.

At this point, it seemed easier to ignore Kadar than to try to explain to him the difference between writing up concise rebuttals to inappropriate behavior (that made his blood boil) and trying to craft a reply to his brother’s massive crisis with enough care and consideration to spare his feelings. Ninety five percent of the time, Kadar was the most laid-back and wonderful human that Malik had ever met but the other five percent of the time he was neurotic and irrational and nothing anyone said made any difference to him because he simply had to work through it on his own.

> FROM: Me [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> Well, if you keep acting like a spoiled little shit, I’ll start a blog to criticize you as well and then you’ll get prompt responses to your every entitled demand. In absence of that, just try to remember that I don’t care about Altair’s feelings but I do care about yours.


	11. Chapter 11

son-of-no-one: Don’t be a dumbass. Condoms are only optional if you want to have a baby. (Or STDs) (3m ago)

son-of-no-one: anyone that tries to tell you different is a dick or a bitch and you shouldn’t be sleeping with them. (3m ago)

Shirley-templar: @son-of-no-one, that might be the most intelligent thing you’ve ever said (1m ago)

Altair was slouching in his seat at the airport, waiting for the flight he had been commanded to catch with Ezio grinding his teeth and glaring at his phone right next to him. The jovial mood of hours earlier had evaporated and in its place there was festering unhappiness.

It had happened like this:

They circled back to London after they left Copenhagen because there was a meeting that Altair had to go to and it was London or Madrid and London was closer. (Altair had almost forgotten about the meeting.) He was hungover as hell, drinking coffee by the pot full while he tried to follow the lull of numbers and projections and plans and other things that sounded very businesslike and very important. He was sidetracked by some personal drama between two guys that seemed to hate one another and a younger one that they both obviously felt didn’t belong. Altair didn’t care much for the politics of the office (he didn’t care much for the meeting in general) but he had no paper to draw so he did his best to stay upright.

After that torture he’d slept for four hours while Ezio did whatever sightseeing you could possibly do in London after you’d been there every year for almost your entire life. Then they dressed themselves up pretty and went out to eat and to a pub that boasted good drinks and had lots of available ladies.

Ezio was two-thirds the way through one of his stories about fighting de Pazzi (the story about how their violent shouting matches had ended with Ezio’s distinctive face scar) when Ezio’s phone rang. Everyone was laughing as Ezio rummaged in his pocket to pull it out and the smile on his face went from honest-to-public-relations as he excused himself. 

“I like your cousin,” Linda said. Her arm was around his back and her body was leaning against the side of his thigh as he sat sideways on a bar stool with his hand behind her back. Her lips were dark-pink and her eyes were pretty-brown and she smelled like something addictive. When she talked, it was low and sultry under the general noise of the pub and the crowd chatting to themselves about what a great guy Ezio was. “He’s funny.”

“He is.” Altair was all set to pull her close and invite her back to his magnificent hotel room when Ezio came up behind him and grabbed him by the collar. Altair almost fell backward, knocked a drink into Linda who shrieked in surprise that made everyone look over at them. “Sorry,” Altair said when both of his feet were on the ground.

“We have to go,” Ezio said shortly. Zero explanation and zero room to argue about anything. Ezio didn’t even bother to apologize for ruining the girl’s dress with carelessness. He just went to get his coat and left Altair standing there awkwardly.

“What’s wrong?” Linda asked. 

Altair took the napkins the helpful bartender was handing over and offered them to her. “Don’t know, probably family stuff. I’m sorry about your dress, I didn’t mean to—” but there was Ezio again yanking him by the arm. “Sorry,” Altair called. He was pulled out of the pub and onto the street, spun in a circle and had his stuff shoved into his chest. “What the hell?” Altair demanded.

Ezio was fixing his scarf, looking around for what direction they needed to head in before looking at him like he didn’t understand the question. “Federico got some woman pregnant.”

That was just fucking great. “Oh I bet Mama Maria is pissed.” He was trying to put his coat on and walk at the same time, dropped his hat and his scarf and had to stop to pick them up while Ezio kept right on marching onward. “Do we know the girl?”

“Pissed is an understatement.” He stopped long enough to curse his brother out in Italian and turn around in a circle to look at him. “He is marrying the woman. Of course he is marrying the woman. My Mother would remove him entirely from our family if he did not. I do not often agree with Desmond but in this he is right!” The angrier Ezio got the stronger his accent got and the stronger his accent got the greater the chance he was going to just start speaking Italian. 

“Wait, who called? Federico or your mother? Who is the woman?” Altair asked.

“My _mother_. We are being summoned home on the next flight to attend the happy nuptials of my brother and bless his stupidity that he may grow old with the woman who had the luck of getting pregnant. No, she did not tell me who it was.” Ezio made a wordless growl of aggravation and then closed his eyes and sucked a breath in through his nose and let it out again. He didn’t look anything like his usual smiling self when he shook his head with a sad sigh. 

“How public is this wedding going to be?” Altair asked. None of the younger generation had married yet. Edward, the oldest of the cousins, had gotten the closest to marrying someone, was flatly informed he’d be cut off if he tried and was then sent out to somewhere in the Caribbean. 

“You are going,” Ezio said flatly. Then he rubbed his hands through his hair and dropped them again. “Perhaps we should be gay, Altair. If we had no interest in beautiful women we’d never risk having to marry someone we didn’t love.”

“Yeah, but dick,” Altair retorted.

“This is true.” Ezio sighed. “We are stopping in New York to get Desmond. Mother will not allow him to turn down this invitation and it is best if we do the kidnapping ourselves.”

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> Federico knocked up Cristina and they are getting married on Saturday. There isn’t enough time to convince you to come of your own free will so Ezio has been tasked with the task of physically forcing you to attend this wedding and making smiling faces at cameras.
> 
> I thought you’d appreciate a heads up.
> 
> Isn’t Cristina the girl Ezio wanted to marry two years ago?
> 
> Yes. He also doesn’t know she’s been seeing Federico for six months. Nobody did. 
> 
> He also doesn’t know Federico is marrying her.
> 
> Because Mama Maria felt like it wasn’t necessary to mention?
> 
> Would you want to tell him?
> 
> that’s why you’re telling me, isn’t it?
> 
> Fuck
> 
> I’m not coming
> 
> You are coming, Desmond. This is not a foundation fundraiser or a family holiday. This is a wedding. You will come.
> 
> Yeah sure. I’ll be there if Edward is
> 
> Father left to get Edward this morning.
> 
> Fuck.
> 
> You have no idea.

Desmond did not doubt, not even for one moment, that Ezio had been ordered to physically remove him from New York by any means necessary. He also didn’t doubt (for one moment) that should Ezio fail to do what he was appointed to do that someone with far more convincing tactics and far less morals would show up. The long standing rumors about the Auditores having mob connections were basically bullshit but that did not mean that old money that attracted old loyalty did not exist.

If Edward was being dragged back from exile, there would be no chance of turning down this invitation. So Desmond told his boss about how he wouldn’t be at work for a week and went home to pack enough clothes to see him through a few days. He looked through hotels close enough to the Auditore family home to make it seem like he wanted to be close to them but far enough away they might not feel like they should come visit him whenever they wanted. 

Altair and Ezio showed up looking jet-lagged as hell. Ezio’s eyes were ringed like a raccoons and Altair was right at his back with a concerned flat-frown and a barely whispered, “he just found out who Federico’s marrying.”

“Oh good,” Ezio said when he saw Desmond’s bags. “I was hoping you’d see reason.”

“Edward is coming,” Desmond said.

“Wow,” Altair mumbled. He looked at his watch and made a terrible little whining noise in the base of his throat. “Our flight is in like two hours.”

So they got a cab and went back to the airport, Altair and Ezio looked like zombies and Desmond was tasked with keeping track of them and their belongings as they boarded the plane. Flying was not so bad when you flew first-class courtesy of someone else’s generosity. 

“So,” Desmond said. 

Ezio rolled his head against the seat back and shrugged his shoulders at the unasked question still lingering in the air. “I am too tired now to care about anything. Perhaps tomorrow.”

That was a lie. Ezio had been insane about Cristina; he had been ready to rip his family into pieces for the right to marry the girl. His Mother had protested he was too young and too wild to settle with anyone (and she wasn’t wrong) but Ezio had swore he’d marry the girl up to the exact moment he had simply stopped. There were many theories about why (she cheated, he cheated, someone cheated) but nobody knew except Ezio-and-Cristina and neither of them had shared the reasons. 

“Did someone get me a hotel room?” Desmond asked.

Altair made a low noise from his seat. He was mostly covered by a blanket, only the tips of his hair and his feet visible under the stretch of it. His voice was a muffled sound that seemed to be trying to convey ‘yes we have rooms’ but was mostly lost in a mumble of vowel sounds. 

Desmond pulled his MP3 player out of his bag and settled into his seat for the duration of the flight.

\--

> ### Kudos for Correcting the Spelling; but you need to stop anyway
> 
> If your intention was to alert the world’s populace that you are heterosexual, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad that mission has been accomplished. You may now stop mentioning how many women you have met, engaged in flirting and had successfully bedded. While there is nothing wrong with enjoying sex there comes a point at which you can no longer try to force your audience to forget your homophobic comments. 
> 
> **(Not to mention after a while it makes you look like a douche.)**  
>  [Posted: 1 Mar]
> 
> ### Happy Hater Monday #011
> 
> This week’s choice for hate was a toss-up between two persistent anons. One anon has spammed every post since I publically asked Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad to stop sending me photos. That anon repeatedly calls me an ungrateful bitch that delights in teasing and denying men. The other would like me to know that Altair is a “gay ass bitch” who needs to “suck a dick and get over it.”
> 
> **And the winner is…**  
>  [Posted: 5 Mar]
> 
> ### That’s a Shocking Show of Sexual Responsibility
> 
> For possibly the first time ever, I write a post without a hint of irony. 
> 
> **Cut for blunt talk about safe sex.**  
>  [Posted 6 Mar]

Malik was not _hiding_. It had been a completely logical decision that he worked out with his Mother over long-phone-conversations about how they couldn’t really afford to bring him home for a week anyway. Malik could have just stayed in the dorm and gotten ahead on some of the reading he needed to do for his classes but Leonardo had offered to let him go home with him for a week. There hadn’t been a lot of vacations in Malik’s personal history. His father had died not too long after they moved to the United States and his Mother had worked her ass off to get enough money for them to have a nice house and a reasonably comfortable life. Food on the table and clothes on their bodies were more important than vacations to anywhere that wasn’t the nearby community pool. So, he went with Leonardo to places he’d never seen.

“I was only in the shower for ten minutes,” Leonardo said when he came back into the room. His stringy blond hair was curling now that it was wet, still dripping water down his winter-paled shoulders. The surprising firmness of his body as on easy display as he dried his hair wearing nothing but a pair of stretchy sleeping pants. “Ten minutes and you are once again frowning at your laptop. I regret giving you the wifi password.”

“There was nothing else to do,” Malik said. He closed his laptop because (he couldn’t work on the blog with Leonardo around and) he hadn’t thought of anything to write for Thursday anyway. “You were in the shower, there’s nothing to snoop through in your room and your Mom already went to bed.”

Leonardo finished toweling his hair dry and threw the towel across a laundry basket on the floor. He leaned forward to pick up the computer and set it on the long dresser by his bed with a careful finality. Then he grabbed Malik just above the knee and dragged him down the bed so he was flat on his back. 

“Your Mom is here,” Malik said to the perfectly entitled way Leonardo straddled his hips. And to the fingers that were plucking at the buttons of his shirt. “No sex while your Mom is here.”

“Our situations are not so similar, Malik. My Mother is aware of my preference for men. I explained it to her when I was a child. There were diagrams.” There probably were diagrams and possibly disgustingly beautiful illustrations to prove the validity of Leonardo’s claims. “She assured me that she supported me regardless of who I wanted to sleep with. You are not the first man I’ve brought back to my bed.”

Malik closed his hands around Leonardo’s wrists to stop him when he spread the open edges of the shirt away from Malik’s chest. It was only his worn-out-undershirt that separated their skin by then. “No sex when your Mother is home.”

“I won’t pretend to understand,” Leonardo said to him. He didn’t mean how tightly Malik was holding his hands or the idea that he’d been denied sex. (Leonardo was shockingly accepting of being denied considering his age and his obvious deep enjoyment of the act.) “I was not raised with in your house, I have never met your mother, I have read a great deal on Islam but it did not provide me with the same understanding that living those beliefs would give. Please do not think that what I say carries any weight save for the sincere wish for your happiness—you should tell your Mother, Malik.”

“That won’t help make me happy.” 

Leonardo pulled his hands free, shifted his weight back ever so slightly so it was balanced more on Malik’s thighs. His raised-eyebrow-expression clearly felt that Malik was being purposefully ignorant of some deeper truth. “We know one another well enough now that I can say, with confidence, that you will not be happy until you do. Whatever it is that you are afraid of cannot be worse than _not knowing_. It is the not knowing that hurts you worse.”

“That’s stupid,” Malik said. He sat up. “What if she decides that I should be stoned to death? What if she kicks me out of my family and refuses to allow me to see my brother ever again? What if she can’t stand the—”

“What if she says, ‘I’ve known all your life, Malik and I love you anyway’?” Leonardo pushed him back down on the bed. “You, my dear friend, cannot deal with not knowing. When, how and if you tell your Mother is your own business. I can only offer my advice on the matter and trust that you will do what is best for you.”

Malik pushed Leonardo off his legs and sat up again. He sat on the edge of the bed and ignored the distance between them. The whole house around them was quiet except for their breathing and Leonardo body as it unfolded along the length of the bed looking for a comfortable spot to stay in. “I don’t like not knowing,” Malik conceded. “But I’d rather not know than know she hates me.”

“Fair enough. This is too upsetting a topic for before bed. Would you like to go watch some nonsense TV with me?”

Yeah. That would be better than dwelling.

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> Edward has a kid.
> 
> What?
> 
> Edward has a child. He has a son named Haytham.
> 
> How?
> 
> I assume sex was involved at some point. The boy is three years old.
> 
> So is Federico still being forcibly married to Cristina?
> 
> Edward is not my Mother’s child.
> 
> True.

The hotel room Desmond was assigned reeked of excess and luxury. The sort of thing that he actively avoided. It was addictive to wake up in the softest and warmest sheets, to be surrounded by careless wealth. He’d ordered breakfast because he was too tired to deal with going down to find something at the restaurant attached to the hotel. (Also because either Altair or Ezio would show up and demand his attention soon.) He took a shower, shaved and got dressed in his best jeans and cleanest shirt.

Then he sat and watched TV until someone showed up to tell him what he was supposed to be doing. He was expecting Ezio (who seemed like the most logical choice given that it was his family enacting this insanity) but it was Altair who came to find him first. The kid was skinnier than when he left (too much drinking and fucking and not enough eating, it seemed). Altair flopped next to him on the couch and picked at his plate of food.

“This is going to be all over the news,” Altair said quietly.

“Yup,” Desmond said. 

Altair just drew a breath in and let it out again. “Well fuck. What are we going to do about Ezio?”

“We are going to do whatever Ezio needs us to do,” Desmond said. He handed the plate over to Altair because he was finished eating and the kid was going to take it eventually anyway. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket to see if there was any other terrible news. “Hey, Edward has a kid.”

“Grandma always said he was the most like Grandpa,” Altair said. 

Oh, _God_ what a thought. Desmond would have very much liked to mention all the ways that was quite possibly the worst thing that could happen and was interrupted by the knock at his door. Ezio was shouting, “you two better be up and ready because we have to get our suits today.”

Altair groaned. Desmond sighed.

\--

> FROM: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Me [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> So was all that crap Mom just told me about not having enough money to bring you home for a week the truth? I don’t even care. But if you’re hiding at some guy’s house to avoid Mom know that I’m pissed at you.

Malik woke up after noon and shuffled downstairs to find Leonardo in the kitchen wearing an old T-shirt and some scruffy looking orange pants. He had an apron around his waist while he stared into the oven. It smelled delectable: crispy and sweet. “Why did you let me sleep forever?”

“You obviously needed it.” Leonardo closed the oven and dusted his hands on the apron. Then he leaned his hip against the counter and rolled an apple toward Malik. “I see by your frown that you have already looked at your computer.”

“My brother is still pissed he got caught making out with some girl.” That was not half of the problem but it was the reason Malik was still getting pissy e-mails from his brother. “What are you baking?”

“Cinnamon rolls,” Leonardo said. “My Mom is going to my Aunt’s tonight. I was going to ask if I could draw you.”

“Your Mom has to be gone for that?”

“Well, I want you naked when I do it.”

That certain did make a bit of difference. Malik rolled the apple between his palm and the counter. “Are you going to draw me like one of your French girls?”

Leonardo rolled his eyes at him. “If we, as a society, could collectively forget that line from that movie, asking to draw people naked would be so much less awkward. I have never drawn a French girl but I do want to draw you naked however you are most comfortable sitting, standing, laying.”

“What are you going to do with the picture when you’re done?”

“I’m going to sell it on E-bay,” Leonardo said absolutely dead-pan. “I’m not going to do anything with it. If you’re not comfortable with it; it’s no big deal. I would have drawn you naked from memory but I figured that you wouldn’t be comfortable knowing how much of your body I have memorized or the fact that I reproduced it without your permission.”

Malik stuck his tongue out at him. “Sure. I just don’t want to see my picture hanging up on someone’s wall.” 

\--

>   
> **Message from** : sass-badger  
> I’m tempted to try to explain that I’m not a gossip magazine to you again but I can’t tell if you’re serious. It reads like it’s serious but a brief google search turned up nothing about any of your (known) cousins getting married. I’m tempted to agree based solely on the fact that I do not want to spread anything that’s not true around but given your past behavior I have no reason to trust you.
> 
> \--- the-real-son-of-no-one wrote:  
> >Two things while I’ve got a minute:  
> >  
> >1\. I don’t sleep with women to prove I’m heterosexual. I am heterosexual and I have sex with   
> >women because I enjoy it/prefer it.  
> >2\. There’s going to be a lot of news coverage on my cousin’s wedding soon. That means   
> >there’s going to be a lot of bullshit published. I don’t think you’d care about most of it because   
> >you don’t seem to care about every other celebrity that does stupid shit on the internet, but if  
>  >you could just not use any of the information without verifying the truth of it with me, I’d owe   
> >you one.

“What the hell does that even mean?” Altair demanded. Desmond didn’t care (because there were other more important things to care about). They were in the elevator on their way to the ground floor to attend a family get-together that would amount to little more than Mama Maria and Giovanni laying down the ground rules for what could be shared with the press. “Based on my past behavior! I haven’t lied about anything.”

Desmond looked at Altair with the expression that he did not believe that ascertain. Then he let out a sigh. “It is not that big of a leap to go from being a whiny snot who says stupid things that hurts peoples feelings for no good reason to someone who would bend or twist the truth to get what he wanted. If you want to prove that you’re serious, explain why it’s important? I don’t care. Nobody is going to be listening to this person. Two days from now our fucking faces are going to be everywhere and every Goddamn mistake we’ve ever made is going to be all over the fucking internet.” 

Altair sighed and followed Desmond out into the lobby and then to the car that Mama Maria sent to get them. It was a brief ride to the Auditore mansion before they were curtly pulled inside and through the long halls to the family dining room. (Different than the one used for the guests.) 

“Save me,” was how Claudia greeted them at the door. She wrapped her arms around Desmond and held onto him as if he were some kind of miracle worker. “It hasn’t stopped being insane since Federico showed up five days ago and announced he was going to have a child. I don’t know who I feel worse for, Cristina, Ezio or poor Edward.”

“But not Federico?” Altair asked.

Claudia slapped him on the arm with the back of her hand. “He deserves everything he’s getting. What kind of idiot behaves so recklessly? For that matter, Cristina should have done better. At least she has a choice, she can play along or she can crush my brother like the worthless bug that he is.”

“What about my Father?” Desmond asked. 

“Not coming,” Claudia said shortly. “I declined his invitation for him. Ezio called me as soon as Mama called him.” Then she turned around and slid her arm around Desmond’s back and pulled him around the table toward Edward. They were the two black sheep of the family, Desmond who left by his own choice and Edward who was (happily) exiled. 

Edward was sitting awkwardly in nice clothes with a tie and a suit jacket. On his lap there was a little boy with a big head and dark hair who looked pink in the cheeks and overwhelmed by all the coming and going happening around the table. Cristina was sitting on the opposite side with an array of open books all around her and a swatch of this and that lying over her arm. Mama Maria was nowhere to be seen but Federico was sitting next to his future bride looking like he’d rather have his tongue pulled out through his asshole than decide what version of white he wanted the tablecloths to be.

“This is insane,” Edward whispered behind the kid’s head.

“Welcome back,” Desmond said with dripping sarcasm. He dropped down into the seat on Edward’s left and Claudia excused herself to go find her Mother now that almost all of the most important players were present. “How’d Mama Maria take it?”

Edward slid his arm around the boy’s chest and pulled him back up against his body. “Well, she didn’t say anything in front of him. Just imagine what she’ll have to say when she finds out about his sister.” Then he looked up at Altair (still standing) and took a moment to be confused by what he was seeing. While Edward was 12 when Altair was born, he had been an adult the last time Altair saw him but Altair had been a fat little kid the last time they’d seen one another. “Damn,” Edward said.

“Puberty was a good time for me,” Altair said. Then he sat down on Edward’s right side and pulled his phone out of his pocket (because it jabbed him in the thigh if he didn’t) and leaned back into the chair with a huff. “I can’t wait to hear what we’re supposed to say about your kid.”

Edward chuckled. “Don’t worry about me. I get paid to be the family disgrace.”

Well, that wasn’t the most depressing thing Altair ever heard. Desmond was laughing on the other side. “I thought that was me,” Desmond mumbled, “I guess I got money for being the family backstabber.”

The kid turned to look at Desmond with a confused twist of his little eyebrows and Edward ruffled up the boy’s hair and let out a sigh. “It could be worse. We could be Federico.”

And on that note, Mama Maria swept into the room and called order to the assortment of voices and bodies. Her smile was broad but it was not sweet. She said, “I wish to make this absolutely clear,” she said, “we are a family. Despite what has happened, despite what damage we have done to one another, if you are in this room right now you are the most important members of this family and I expect you to do as one expects of her family. You will protect our family.”

Altair looked at the faces of the gathered family and couldn’t find Ezio anywhere.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Are you getting drunk somewhere?
> 
> It seems like your Mom wouldn’t let you get out of his press relations strategy meeting.
> 
> I am not drunk. I am not participating in this farce until I have to.
> 
> I grew up with my Mother. I know the drill. Smile, deny, say how great everything is.
> 
> Cristina left ten minutes ago and she hasn’t come back.

Ezio was in the garden. He wasn’t drunk but he was _drinking_. One of the natural talents he’d been born with was a high tolerance for mind and mood altering substances. (Which had not been great when he’d gotten his face cut open and had stitches that hurt like hell for a few days.) His phone was sitting on the stone bench next to him while he watched koi swimming around in their glistening blue paradise. “If Altair has noticed you’ve gone missing, everyone must know by now,” he said softly.

Cristina nodded. “This is more important.”

No it wasn’t. It had been important two years ago when he was on his knees begging her to take him as a husband. Now it was the same sort of necessary but unwelcome public relations that was being explained in the dining room. Ezio straightened up, took a long drink of the wine he’d taken from the kitchen and turned enough to look at her. “Do you love him?” Ezio wasn’t sure if he wanted the answer to be yes or no. If he wanted to know that she was going to be happy with his stupid brother or if he wanted the satisfaction of knowing that she was doing this because she _had_ to do this. 

“I like him, I could love him,” Cristina said. “I’m not unhappy to marry him. I do not love him the way I loved you.”

Ezio nodded. “Why didn’t you tell me that you were seeing him?”

Her smile was so fucking _sad_. The well of tears in her eyes sparkly in the low light of the late evening. Her lips were pink (always so pretty and pink) and her cheeks were bare of blush and foundation. Her whole face was imperfect without make-up and yet the most beautiful face he had ever seen in his entire life. Her hand rested across his arm asking him for forgiveness he didn’t want to give. She said, “I did not think it would amount to anything. We had drinks a few times, went out to eat as friends and then it became something more. But I thought it was just a silly fling.”

“With my brother,” Ezio said.

“I did not say it was an _intelligent_ choice. Please do not be angry with me, Ezio. I couldn’t take it.” 

But Ezio wanted to be angry at her. He wanted to be furious at her for rejecting him when he’d wanted her so much it felt as if it would turn him inside out. He wanted to be furious that she was being forced to marry his brother just to save his stupid brother from being stricken from the family. He was still naïve enough to believe that marriage should be based on love. (He was still enough in love with Cristina he wanted her to be happy even if it couldn’t be with him.) He put his arm around her shoulders and pulled her up against his body. He kissed her forehead when he wanted to kiss her lips. “I am not angry at you. I make no promises about my brother.”

Cristina’s laugh was sweet. “He is waiting for you to beat him up. You should not disappoint him. But do not hit his face, your Mother would be furious.”

“You give the best advice,” he said. He let her go and picked up his phone to see if Altair had any more important things to tell him and found that Claudia had been dispatched to locate and return Cristina. “You have to go. Claudia is looking for you.”

Cristina stood up and turned back to look toward the house. “You know,” she said, “this would really help you sell your own reality TV show to someone. I mean, your ex-fiancée marrying your big brother? It seems like you could easily get someone interested.”

Ezio took a drink to that information.

\--

>   
> **Message from** : the-real-son-of-no-one  
> Look, my Grandfather whored around the world leaving illegitimate love-children everywhere he went. Every time something happens in our family, someone gets the bright idea to bring it up and suddenly there’s a whole new wave of supposed DeCort heirs that show up and want their piece of the pie. That is a pain in the ass but the lawyers deal with it, primarily. The real problem is that suddenly everyone has something to say about my Grandfather, the Auditores having connections to the mob and how my Grandmother forced all our mothers to give us up so she could pretend to have a family. I don’t know anything about you (other than you can write a mean paragraph) but your past behavior leads me to believe that you’d be perfectly happy to use all of that bullshit information to explain why I’m a homophobic little shitface that likes treating women like sex slaves and wants nothing more in life than my face on a billboard. 
> 
> My Grandmother deserves better than that. If you have to address the wedding and the resulting load of bullshit that follows, I’ll give you the true story.
> 
> \--- sass-badger wrote:  
> >I’m tempted to try to explain that I’m not a gossip magazine to you again but I can’t tell if you’re   
> >serious. It reads like it’s serious but a brief google search turned up nothing about any of your   
> >(known) cousins getting married. I’m tempted to agree based solely on the fact that I do not   
> >want to spread anything that’s not true around but given your past behavior I have no reason   
> >to trust you.
> 
> >\--- the-real-son-of-no-one wrote:  
> >>Two things while I’ve got a minute:  
> >>  
> >>1\. I don’t sleep with women to prove I’m heterosexual. I am heterosexual and I have sex with   
> >>women because I enjoy it/prefer it.  
> >>2\. There’s going to be a lot of news coverage on my cousin’s wedding soon. That means   
> >>there’s going to be a lot of bullshit published. I don’t think you’d care about most of it because   
> >>you don’t seem to care about every other celebrity that does stupid shit on the internet, but if  
>  >>you could just not use any of the information without verifying the truth of it with me, I’d owe   
> >>you one.

“I cannot even pretend to be surprised,” Leonardo said when he came back from going to the bathroom. He picked up the giant sketchpad he’d been staring at for the past hour or so and settled back into his chair. “Have you always suffered this preoccupation with the internet?”

“Yes,” Malik said. 

Leonardo sighed. “I am not redrawing this to include your angry frown and the computer in your lap. Is it your brother?”

“No,” Malik said. No it was the idiot that he couldn’t stand. “I have to answer this,” he said, “then I’ll let you get back to your thing.”

\--

>   
> **Message from** : sass-badger
> 
> To be clear, you are asking me to trust you against my better judgment for the sake of sparing the feelings of people who are important to you despite the fact that you can’t spare anyone’s feelings. I appreciate the reasons that you’ve given me. I appreciate the sensitivity of situation and how you wish to protect you Grandmother’s memory. I would feel the same if my Father’s reputation were at stake.
> 
> Since I still have not found any mention of a wedding related to your family my first question is who is getting married and why?

Desmond did not make a habit of reading other people’s computer screens because it led to embarrassing, potentially volatile situations like this one. Altair had obviously been staring at this question long enough to have become mired in indecision. He was now forced to decide if it were more important to protect his family or his Grandmother’s memory. Desmond was still looking at the screen trying to work it out when Altair came back from the bathroom freshly scrubbed clean and ready to be presented to the public. They were all going to be publically spotted doing wedding-related things today. Then, on Saturday (after the media got ahold of the news that Cristina was marrying Federico) they would all be attending the wedding.

“Tell her,” Desmond said.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll just tell this vapid bitch that complains about everything I do the very secret that my scary Aunt Maria explicitly said we could not tell anyone.” Altair flopped down next to him on the couch. “I am going to tell her. I’m just not sure what she’s going to do about it.”

“Nothing. She just wants you to prove that you’re serious. You know for sleeping with so many women you know nothing about them.”

Altair laughed in the most obnoxious way possible. “But I know a lot about their vaginas. Let me write this up and then we can go.”

\--

>   
> **Message from** : the-real-son-of-no-one
> 
> I’m trusting you, so don’t disappoint me. My cousin Federico is marrying a woman named Cristina Vespucci because he got her pregnant. Officially, they are getting married because they are in love and have been for a while. Officially, we were trying to keep the wedding a secret. But in reality, Federico is marrying her because if he doesn’t he’ll get disowned and be penniless. 
> 
> **Message from** : Anonymous
> 
> Sass-Badger,  
> Shirley-Templar here. Altair is telling you the truth. I watched him write it so I know it’s true. I know he’s a shit but if he gives his word, he means it if that helps your indecision any.

Malik had managed to finish getting drawn (naked), have sex (twice), sleep and eat breakfast before he checked his computer again. Leonardo said nothing about his extreme level of self-control or the fact that he was now frowning at the computer again. “Damn it,” he mumbled.

“Brother?”

“No. He’s ignoring me now.” The very last thing in the world that Malik wanted to do was spare Altair’s fucking feelings. But even with this huge opportunity sitting right in front of him (on a _Thursday_ when he had no other post ready) he couldn’t bring himself to use it. Malik wasn’t a journalist; he didn’t suffer from the need to have the best, most recent, most tantalizing news. Malik sighed. “Fuck. I’m going to be on this for a while. I was supposed to have something done that I haven’t started working on yet.”

“Procrastination doesn’t seem like your style. If you insist on being boring on such an extreme level, I am going to see a few of my friends. The food is in the cabinets and you are welcome to whatever you find. You have my number if you need me.” 

\--

> ### Some people just can’t take a compliment.
> 
> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad when I offered you my sincere congratulations on maintain an exercise program I assumed that you would _continue_ to maintain it. Instead you seem to have decided to replace healthy eating and a reliable routine with gorging on European delicacies and having all the sex you can manage. This is not the same, in case you were confused.
> 
> • **the-real-son-of-no-one**  
>  You obviously have not eaten European delicacies or had as much sex as you can manage. I’m thinner now than ever and I have abs. If you’d lift the ban on sending you photos I’d show you.
> 
> • **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  It’s almost as if you are trying to give me new material, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Perhaps you have not been getting enough attention? 
> 
> • **the-real-son-of-no-one**  
>  I never get enough of your attention, ass-badger. I’ll make a video dedicated to you just to show how very good my recent diet and exercise plan has been for my body. I know how very interested you are in my good health.

Altair was sitting at one of the tables at the reception, looking at his phone’s blank face and trying to think of something interesting (anything interesting) after a few hours of listening to Federico marrying Cristina. (He hated church.)

“Get up,” Ezio said when he came up behind the chair and grabbed Altair by the back of the suit jacket. He didn’t pause long enough to explain before he dragged him forward through a crowd of chairs and well-wishing friends and semi-relatives. There were a few reporters given the rights to photograph and report on the wedding and so everyone was smiling their biggest and brightest. (And Desmond was hiding in shadows dark enough to keep photographers from finding him.) “That dick is here.”

“Your brother?” Altair asked. He crowded up close to Ezio so he could follow him around a curve in the garden that took them out through to the gates where two valets and two security officers were keeping track of who came and went. A host of paparazzi were doing a poor job hiding across the street, and they were freshly rocked to life by the appearance of Ezio (clearly the favorite). “Oh,” Altair said just seconds before Ezio grabbed William Miles by the lapels, dragged him forward away from the civil conversation he was having with one of the security officers and turned him around to slam him into the gate.

“Ezio,” Altair said, “Mama Maria will kill you.”

William looked like a much older, less attractive and altogether rounder version of Desmond. His face had lost any trace of goodwill that made Desmond’s face friendly and inviting. Instead he looked bitter and unhappy even with a smile on his face. Right now his face was going ruddy-red and both of his hands were curling around Ezio’s wrists. “He is here,” is what William said.

“You can leave on your own I will personally kick your ass all the way back to the hole you crawled out of,” Ezio said to him. 

The security guards were trying to intervene without actually touching and their worried asides were falling on deaf ears. Altair was close enough to see the twitching muscle in Ezio’s jaw and the tightening-whiteness of his knuckles as he twisted the lapels of the (cheap, relatively speaking) suit. William was trying to maintain eye contact but Altair had seen Ezio furious enough to follow through on threats like that before and just looking at his face was difficult enough without worrying about looking in his eyes. “You are not the one who gets to decide.”

Altair snorted from the side. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Get out,” he said. “Or we will take turns kicking you.”

Ezio looked at him only long enough to smile and then turned back to William and let go of his suit. He motioned out toward the street and William wavered in resolve. He opened his mouth and Ezio slapped him and then pointed a finger at his face. “Shut up. You will not speak to me again. You will not show your face here again. You are not wanted. You are not welcome. You will disappear.”

William was angry and embarrassed but cowed (at least momentarily) because he turned and went with his legs moving faster-and-faster. The paparazzi across the street were snapping pictures like their lives depended on it and Altair uncrossed his arms long enough to give them all the finger. Two of them, actually. Ezio smirked back at him but didn’t join in. 

“Let’s go,” Ezio said. “I still have to beat up Federico and make a toast.”

“In that order?” Altair asked. He followed Ezio back through the gate with a grin, stopped to say hello to the ladies that he remembered from the foundation fundraisers (the ones close enough that Mama Maria invited them last moment) and found Haytham (Edward’s kid) eating flowers off a bush. “Oh,” he said to the kid. “Where’s your Dad?”

Haytham shrugged and stuck another flower in his mouth. 

“Oh. Well, let’s go find him.” He took Haytham by the (sticky, gross) hand and went looking for Edward.

\--

son-of-no-one: Pretty good pics of me here #justcallingithowiseeit (9h ago)

Desmond did not find out about his father’s attempt to attend the wedding until he was back in New York. He’d been waiting on his drink while Lucy finished it up and she looked up from the cup long enough to say, “what were your cousins so pissed at anyway? I saw those pictures of them from outside the wedding.”

“What?” Desmond asked. Because he hadn’t known. 

Lucy pointed at the gossip rags that were sitting on the table with the stack of papers (as if they were news) and Desmond picked through them until he found the one with Ezio threatening his dad and Altair flipping off all the paparazzi. The look on Altair’s slightly-tilted head was defiant aggression and it made the smile that pulled his lips up on the edges look even more arrogant than normal. But Ezio was frowning after his father’s retreating back with _murder_ caught in the edges of his face. 

“I’m sorry,” Lucy said when he looked up. “I didn’t mean to bring up a sore subject. I thought it was going to be some funny.”

Desmond smiled and dropped the stupid tabloid. “Well it’s not funny but I suddenly like the two of them more than I did five minutes ago.” He accepted the drink from her and turned the cup around to look at the assortment of little hearts. “Thank you, Lucy.” He dug his phone out of his pocket and called Ezio-not-Altair. 

“What?” Ezio demanded. “I’ve got a flight to catch and this whiny baby is complaining about going to Italy—the best place in the world to be!”

“Thanks,” Desmond said.

“Ah. You are my family, Desmond. I take care of my family. No thanks required.” Then he said something sharp and Italian to Altair who retorted in Italian (a curse word that Desmond recognized) and Ezio came back, “I have to go. I must kill and hide him.”

“Good luck,” Desmond said.


	12. Chapter 12

> ### Happy Hater Monday #013
> 
> This particular Hater Monday requires a small bit of backstory for those of you that persist in happy ignorance of the events of the past few weeks. There has been (for lack of a nice term) a media shit storm surrounding the DeCort cousins including but not limited to: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad (sole heir to a mighty throne largely characterized by laziness and sexual promiscuity), Edward Kenway (infamous playboy that was exiled after attempting to marry a former prostitute who may or may not have been pregnant with his child), William Miles (noticeably removed from the family inheritance despite the objections of half of the Auditore family), and both Ezio and Federico Auditore (both known for having been in love with the same woman and now apparently not speaking to one another). 
> 
> It is also important to note that **the-real-son-of-no-one** is really Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad as evidence by  any of these photographs. That is right I have the dubious honor of receiving messages and taunts (such as these) from the very man I created this blog to publicly criticize. You can imagine how thrilled I am.
> 
> Keep that in mind when you read the following:
> 
> _**Anonymous said:**  
>  You know what makes me sick? The utter bullshit that was enacted by the Auditore family two weeks ago! Not only did they try to cover up the fact that they are misogynist pigs by telling some fairy tale story of true love—which nobody believes. The photographs that were ‘leaked’ from the ‘blessed event’ look like they were staged by underpaid actors. The ugly brother, Federico and his ‘glowing’ wife don’t even look like they can tolerate one another much less that they are ‘in love’. It makes me sick, especially after I just read in this article that the wife is pregnant. That marriage had nothing to do with love and everything to do with a tradition of trapping women into marriage just because they were pregnant. Nobody can say that the Auditore family didn’t demand that she marry their stupid, ugly son just to spare themselves the embarrassment of another illegitimate child. I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree! Everyone knows that the old man slept with every woman that he could and refused to allow his wife to divorce him even after all his little bastard sons started showing up on their doorstep. You know what else makes me sick? The fact that you haven’t said a damn word about it. You act like you’re some sort of moral compass, some kind of wonder-feminist and yet here you are still talking about how that pig Altair hasn’t been keeping up with his exercise regimen. Fuck you too. How about you stop talking to the little bastard and remember why you got started and call attention to the larger problem here? How about you talk about how his family is disgusting for forcing that poor girl to marry someone she didn’t want? How about you talk about how money is all that matters to those people and how disgusting that is? _
> 
> _Hypocrites make me sick._
> 
> Let me address your concerns in the order in which they were presented.  
> 1\. The Auditores are not ‘misogynist pigs’. They do not come from a line of misogynist pigs, they do not practice or condone misogyny. The family business is primarily banking but it has expanded to include a variety of smaller businesses that range from land development to producing television shows. They have a long standing, much talked about, policy to fire anyone who attempts to treat any employee unfairly regardless of the reason. While Giovanni Auditore retains the coveted position as the head of this small empire, it is well-document and well-known that the real head of the Auditore family is Maria Auditore. She managed to raise a family—including two troublesome sons, a daughter and a chronically ill child, while managing two companies, while creating a foundation dedicated to developing better treatments for her son’s condition, while making countless appearances to give speeches about equality for everyone, while—honestly I could keep going but you either do not care or can look it up yourself. Not to mention, the DeCort family was run by Phyllis DeCort who took inherited a fortune and a few dozen companies from her father and married a man who turned out to be a philanderer (more on that in a minute). Rather than play the aggrieved spouse card (as she was certainly entitled to do) she set about publicly acknowledging her husband’s lost children, quietly removed him from any position of power and summarily replaced him with herself. And in case you aren’t impressed by that, remember that she had two masters degrees, survived two bouts of breast cancer, once spit in a dictator’s face and had the dignity to put up with _years_ of people mocking her for raising her own grandchildren. The Auditore and DeCort families are run by women and if you cannot see that it is because you are not looking.
> 
> 2\. The marriage between Federico and Cristina Auditore is nobody’s business but Federico and Cristina Auditore’s. I realize that they are famous people in a world that is obsessed with fame and money and thus we, the audience of their lives, feel that we are _owed_ complete and unfettered access to their personal lives. However, allow me to be the first to say to you that you are wrong. 
> 
> 3\. You have linked to an article written by a website that also reports that a man married a pizza in Kansas before eating the pizza. While that story made several excellent points about the nature of cannibalism in marriage and the puzzlement of the local authorities over how such an ‘atrocity’ had been allowed to happen, I simply cannot take that source seriously. I am now struggling to take you seriously. 
> 
> 4\. I honestly cannot find any mention of any member of the Auditore or DeCort family trapping anyone into marriage over a baby. I did find a mention in a blurb here that mentions Edward Kenway tried to marry a woman his family disapproved of and decided to skip marrying her and had a kid with her instead. 
> 
> 5\. Mr. DeCort did indeed have sex with a variety of women in a variety of different countries. However, it was not his wife that was not permitted a divorce. Phyllis DeCort infamously told him that she would not pay for him to divorce her so he would simply have to hire a lawyer himself. Since she also cut him off from her own inherited fortune and fired him from his lucrative job he was pretty much powerless to do so as any money he still had was spent paying child support.
> 
> 6\. I am not a wonder-feminist. I am just a regular person who believes all people should be treated fairly and equal. I also believe hate does nothing but create more hate. 
> 
> 7\. While Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad does frequently mention me on his Twitter and his Youtube channel and while I do receive messages from him on posts and now and again in my inbox, this does not mean that we ‘talk’. It means he cannot resist the temptation to annoy me. 
> 
> 8\. I will not call attention to a larger problem that there is no evidence exists. If the time comes that Cristina Auditore comes forward and tells the public that she was forced into a sham marriage because she was pregnant, I might call attention to it. 
> 
> 9\. There is simply no proof that the DeCort/Auditore family cares more about money than anything else. If/when the proof shows itself I will address the issue.
> 
> 10\. If I were a hypocrite I would tell you that you are nothing more than a shit-stirring hate monger that might benefit from shutting the fuck up. But as I do not believe in spreading hate, I refrain.
> 
> Until next time, friends.

Kadar didn’t even mean to look up Malik’s stupid blog. He had only just gotten his computer back after two months of absence and the last thing he wanted to do was deal with his brother’s stupid obsession.

“Is that homework?” his Mother asked from the doorway. 

No it wasn’t homework. Kadar looked up at her from over the top of the screen and tried to come up with a convincing sounding answer that didn’t out his idiot brother. (But it was all he could think about most days, how much he wanted to know if their Mother really would hate his brother. If Malik was right about avoiding her. If he was going to spend the rest of his life in this miserable little space between the two of them.)

“I was looking at Malik’s blogs,” he said in the end. “He’s too busy at college to worry about me anymore so I thought I could—you know, see what he’s complaining about now.”

Mother’s face softened at that. She came into the room while he closed his computer and stuck it to the side. He wiggled over to give her space to sit next to him and put her arm over his shoulders. Her fingers were soft and reassuring petting the back of his neck as she pressed her cheek against the top of his head. “It will get easier, Kadar. It is his first year away from his home. He is meeting new people and having new experiences and it is very exciting for young men. Remember that your brother loves you and that he will come back to us. Remember,” she said softly, “that one day it will be your turn to leave us and it will be difficult but we will be as patient with you as I am asking you to be with your brother.”

Kadar wrapped his arm around her and sighed. “Yeah but I’m not as dumb as Malik is.”

Her laugh was a forgiving sound. “Yes, Malik is dumb where you are smart and he is smart where you simply cannot apply yourself.” Because none of his Mother’s sons could possibly be dumb. “Even though it is difficult, even if it feels like it a thankless task, be patient with your brother. Show him the love that you want in return and he will find his way back to us.” Then she kissed his forehead and got up off the bed. “And do your homework. It would be a shame to lose your computer again so quickly.”

Kadar sighed. “I will.” Do his homework. Not that other thing where he tried to be patient with Malik while he was being ignored.

\--

> [Vid starts with Ezio, Altair and La Volpe standing outside in a private garden. Ezio is dressed in pants and a white shirt, Altair is wearing red shorts and a white shirt, La Volpe is wearing orange and brown striped shirt and shorts]
> 
> Altair: so here we are in one of the gardens at the Villa Auditore in Firenze. According to Ezio this has been the home of the Auditore family for ten generations? 
> 
> Ezio: Yes.
> 
> Altair: Yeah. So we’re here because we met this badass right here. I’m not sure what his name is but he calls himself ‘La Volpe’ which means ‘the fox’. Apparently La Volpe is some kind of parkour grandmaster and he’s going to teach us the basics like falling on our asses and running and stuff like that. Right?
> 
> La Volpe: Something like that.
> 
> Altair: Of course if you’re on my channel you know that I’ve been working on this for a few months. I’ve gotten all this nice muscle definition from working with Bart—you guys remember Bart? He’s like nine foot tall and specializes in torturing people for money? He trained Ezio and look at him, he’s ripped. Show them.
> 
> Ezio: I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, cousin.
> 
> Altair: Nobody believes that. Just lift your shirt up—yeah, see? Look at those abs. Now, I hope everyone enjoys this. Ok, La Volpe, show us your stuff.

Malik was not heartless; he also wasn’t made of stone. He laughed his ass off while Altair fell over time-and-time again. Every time he got up the poor guy La Volpe looked slightly less comfortable and slightly more concerned that he’d signed himself up for the impossible. Ezio—sun-warmed and rosy with laughing—was disgustingly attractive with dirt on his expensive clothes and his hair falling out of its pony tail. (In fact, Malik pretty much always found Ezio to be disgustingly attractive but he tried very hard not to dwell on that fact.) Ezio mastered basic rolls and falls with ease while Altair played the clown.

It was funny on the surface—gut-wrenchingly hilarious—but it was nothing but a sad reflection of what Altair must think of himself. The family punch line that was good for nothing except amusing the bigger-stronger-smarter boys. 

Frank (his roommate) stuck his head out from under his blanket to frown at him for laughing at one in the morning. “You know, I like it better when you just frown at that stupid thing and type really fast. Why don’t you do that?”

Malik said, “sorry. I’m done now.”

For a minute, Frank burrowed back under his blanket and left it alone but getting woke up must be arousing for straight guys because he was not-at-all-subtly stroking himself under the blanket for a full minute. Then he let out a huffing-noise and flopped onto his back (erection clearly and unabashedly a visible tent in the blanket) and looking over at him. “So you’re gay right?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve got a dick,” Frank said. Clearly, he felt these two things were connected somehow. 

“Obviously,” Malik said. “If this is going to segue into you asking me for some kind of sexual favor you should probably spare us both the embarrassment.”

“You sleep with that guy down the hall all the time. I’m not asking you to be my boyfriend, I just have been striking out with the ladies since my girlfriend dumped me. It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone.” Frank made it sound like he was being _reasonable_ about this proposition. 

“I’d try to explain to you all the reasons that what you just said to me was awful but I get the feeling it would fall on deaf ears. I’m not blowing you just because I’m gay and you’ve got a hard-on.” It wasn’t even because Malik was particularly picky about who he slept with. It was mostly because there was no way Frank wouldn’t tell everyone that he came across and Malik would go from being that frowning guy who was gay to that guy who blew his straight roommate. 

“What if I blew you?”

“You’re straight,” Malik said, “I don’t find that terribly attractive. If I’m putting my dick in someone’s mouth I want them to have some idea what to do with it. Just go jack off in the bathroom or right there, I don’t care.” Because he didn’t. And Frank, having been given permission, frowned over everything but went ahead and masturbated right in front of him. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> I broke my wrist.
> 
> Doing parkour or trying to get laid?
> 
> You are too funny.
> 
> No I broke it when I fell down the stairs. They thought I had a concussion but I don’t.
> 
> Were you drunk?
> 
> You think I can’t fall down the stairs sober?
> 
> Of course you can. But were you sober?
> 
> Of course not.
> 
> Of course not.

Desmond had a cold. Desmond had a miserable head cold. Desmond had a cough. Desmond felt like crap. Desmond did not feel like dealing with anything. Desmond wanted to stay in bed all the time.

But, he still wanted coffee (even in death) so he found his way to his favorite coffee shop and shuffled up to Amy who looked impressed-and-horrified at him. It must have been quite a sight, him with his face full of snot and his miserably slumped shoulders. His throat hurt like it had been cut with razors before he drank a gallon of salt-filled orange juice. 

Lucy came over to stand next to Amy and joined her in astonishment. Then she leaned forward to put her hand on his forehead as if she expected him to have a fever (he didn’t) and managed not to look too disgusted when she found his skin all clammy with sweat. “Why are you here?” she demanded.

“You guys don’t deliver,” Desmond said in a whisper. It was the only sound he was capable of making. He dug his wallet out of his coat pocket and motioned over toward the round part of the coffee bar where his drink was prepared then held up two fingers. One for now and one for later when he crawled out of bed again.

Amy looked at Lucy like she was asking permission to sell stuff to the terminally ill. Then she rung up the drinks.

Lucy went to make his drink(s) and frowned the whole time before she put both cups in the open space for him to take. “You look really bad. Promise me that if you don’t feel better by tomorrow that you’ll go to the doctor? Maybe call a damn cab instead of walking everywhere for once? Call me, I’ll give you a ride to the doctor.” She turned one of the cups around so he could see her number written on it with a sweetly phrased: ‘go to the doctor, idiot’ written above it.

Desmond as too tired to protest so he nodded his head and picked up the cup. He raised it with his thanks and picked up the second one before shuffling out toward the door. But the effort of having to get back to his apartment was too monumental to contemplate so he stayed there for a second frowning over his own stupidity. 

“I’m taking my break,” Lucy said behind him. Desmond was out on the sidewalk before she caught him by the arm. Her face was all concern, no meanness, when she shook her head at him. “You know for a guy who takes such good care of people you do a shit job taking care of yourself. Come on I’ll drive you home.”

Desmond offered her a smile and nodded. He managed to force enough air through his throat to explain how to get to his apartment. Once there he mumbled a thank you and extracted himself from her very small (but very clean) car and took the two coffees from her when she handed them through the driver’s window. 

“I’m serious about the doctor,” Lucy said.

Desmond nodded again. Then he went upstairs to crawl into bed and stay there until his whole body stopped hurting.

\--

son-of-no-one: I can’t help but notice that ass-badger is running out of new material on that blog of hers. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: I mean, if you read carefully and between the lines it looks like she actually defended me for once. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: I was touched. I was moved. So I’m going to do her a favor. I broke my wrist after I got drunk and fell down a bunch of stairs. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: you’d think that was bad enough, right? But then I hit on all the nurses. They didn’t find that charming of me. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: so they called my Aunt Maria and told on me. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: so I got kicked out of the family villa(2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: you know, that’s fair and all. Except that I also got @EzioAuditore kicked out because he was with me while I was hitting on the nurses. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: so I’m convalescing in this hotel. But no worries, I have two very lovely ladies keeping me company and feeding me grapes. (2h ago) 

Altair was expecting some witty rebuttal to his tweets. It was only Wednesday but there was almost tomorrow’s post to tell him all the ways he was an asshole that shouldn’t have flirted with the nurses (especially not in a hospital so close to the Auditore family home or one where Mama Maria was so well known or had donated so much money). He had put away his phone and computer and ignored the internet to concentrate on the lovely ladies and their lovely grapes (which were not figurative but literal).

By the time they had gotten bored of showering him with praise, affection, grapes and orgasms, he was alone (vaguely sticky) with his wrist aching and the bruise on his ass a persistent pain whenever he tried to sit.

Sass-badger’s response was a private message from his blog saying:

> Message from: **sass-badger**  
>  You know, you don’t actually have to be a punch line. What do you even get out of making people laugh at you anyway?

Altair sneered at it, laying across the oversized bed with the too-soft mattress and the layers and layers of fine blankets and sheets. Every instinct in his body wanted to tell the snotty bitch exactly what he thought of her trying to tell him what _he_ was when she hadn’t even met him. (That he knew of. Although he had once-or-twice that he must have slept with her because there was really no other reason she’d be so pissed off.) But he was tired and soupy from the pain medicines and relaxed from recent orgasms.

No, he was embarrassed by having Mama Maria yell at him over the phone about his behavior when she usually tolerated-like-ignored him. He was frustrated because Ezio was half-there and half-pissed. He was lonely because he couldn’t make Desmond come with him. 

So he hit reply and he said:

> What do you get out of being hated? I have read the shit comments on your blog. I have seen how many of them you get every freaking day. Why the hell are you doing what you’re doing when all you’re getting is a bunch of anonymous assholes telling you how wrong you are? I don’t know anything about you but I can’t imagine that I’ve, personally, have done anything to you that gives you the superhuman ability to put up with that much bullshit. 
> 
> Yeah, I’m a punch line. Yeah, people laugh at me all the time. I make it easy to laugh at me because if they’re laughing at how ridiculous I am and how many times I fall down and how I can’t ever do anything then they aren’t telling me I’m worthless and stupid. They aren’t telling me how I need to get a job and act like an adult. Nobody is asking me stupid questions about my family that I can’t (or won’t) answer. I’d rather be laughed at than be in your shoes is what I’m saying. 
> 
> You deal with your shit how it works for you and I deal with mine.
> 
> I want to thank you. You could have said a lot of things these past few weeks and you would have gotten a lot of attention for it if you did it right but you didn’t. I said it before but you either don’t care or think I’m not serious but if there’s anything I can do in return for your discretion, let me know.

Altair slept for a while because the painkillers made him sleepy and woke up long enough to eat something and take a bath. He was back in bed waiting on room-service when he checked his messages.

> Message From: **Sass-badger**  
>  I’ll keep that in mind. 
> 
> On a different note, and I cannot believe that I’m bothering to say this to you, you have the potential to be really good at what you’re trying to do, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Just for a few minutes, perhaps without a camera pointed at you, _try_ to do your best instead of perfecting your slapstick routine. If you still need people to laugh at you afterwards, you can always take up acting again.

Altair snorted at the screen and closed his computer because he was feeling dangerously fond of the bitch and might send her something he’d regret later. 


	13. Chapter 13

> [Video starts out with a good view of a the table top the camera has been set on, behind it there is a long line of windows with dark blue curtains pulled apart to show a city in the background.]
> 
> **Altair** (offscreen): Where’s my other phone!
> 
> **Ezio** (offscreen): wherever you left it! 
> 
> **Altair** : [ _grunts as he sits in front of the camera, adjusts camera to point up higher_ ] Okay so, I know that we were in Italy for a while. I know that you know we were in Italy for a while because you guys really liked that video where Ezio took his shirt off and did backflips. Apparently you are all far more into chest hair than anyone could have suspected. I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that. Just I didn’t expect it.
> 
> **Ezio** : Here’s your stupid phone.
> 
> **Altair** : Why are you wearing a suit?
> 
> **Ezio** : I have the thing.
> 
> **Altair** : What thing?
> 
> **Ezio** : The thing for which I have to wear a suit. Do your stupid video, I’ll be back. [ _Off-screen_ ] Pack your shit! We have a flight to catch.
> 
> **Altair** : I have no idea where he’s going. Anyway, I was saying we’ve been staying in Italy for a while. I broke my wrist five or six weeks ago and am still in a cast. [ _bangs cast on table_ ] That doesn’t hurt. A lot of you sent me some nice things, you know generalized well-wishes and all so I wanted to thank you for that. It really warms my little heart. There was, of course, one person who did not bother to wish me the best. That would be our friend _ass-badger_. She seems to think it’s my own fault that I fell down the stairs and hopes that I’ve learned my lesson. Well—that’s probably not going to happen. But onto the point!
> 
> [ _Rummages in bags next to the table before setting several phones on the table._ ]
> 
> **Altair** : So I broke my _old_ phone because it was a piece of shit or something. I had to replace it and I was back here at my place for a few days doing business, so I took Ezio with me—because he cares about technology and I don’t—and we talked to a very nice, very-very-very gay gentleman named Gary or something? He was good. If he works on commission I think he had a great day today. So. I was there looking at phones and Ezio’s having an orgasm over the IPhone and this phone called the Nokia something-something, I don’t even know. He’s just cradling them in his hands and cooing at them. It was stupid. I don’t care about phones. I don’t know anything about phones. I was way out of my depth, standing there with my hands in my hair—that is why it looks so bad right now—trying to figure out what I was going to do.
> 
> **Altair** : Then I remembered I am filthy fucking rich. So I bought them all. I’ve got the Nokia—uh—E6 something-something. I have the IPhone which I like already because look at the screen that is a nice looking screen. But it’s like a touch screen and I have these big fingers because I’m a guy so I end up typing all this weird garbage instead of words. Just a heads up twitter—if you can’t figure out what I’m saying it’s the keyboard. I got a Blackberry because why not? I got a Nokia 95 because I don’t know I think I was just on a roll. Then I have this Helio thing? It’s ugly. And Razr2 which I’m pretty sure my new pal Gary just added in because I don’t even know. The point is I have one now. I also have like—six new phone numbers so I just have to figure out which one I’m giving to which relative so I know what phone to lose first. 
> 
> **Altair** : I’ll keep you updated on what the phone is best—although I really like this IPhone. Look at this shit. [ _clear view of the IPhone’s screen_ ] It’s really cool. If you guys have the means, you should get one of these. I’m not even getting paid to tell you that either. Anyway, I’m going to play with my phones and you guys do what you do and my next video is going to be better. 

Kadar was sitting in Malik’s computer chair (because he dragged it into his room since his brother was never coming home again) with his feet on the end of his bed and the laptop balanced on his knees _cringing_ at the video. It wasn’t even necessarily that Altair was a douche (but he was) with his up-styled hair and his skin-tight white undershirt underscoring the new muscle tone on his arms and the sunny-tan he’d gotten from somewhere. (Or really that could just be his natural color. Kadar didn’t pay attention to the guy that closely.)

No, it was thinking about Malik’s face when he inevitably watched the video and his scathing rebuttal that made Kadar cringe. At this point, if he didn’t know any better, he might have sworn that Altair was _baiting_ his brother with stupidity like this. (What an awful thought that was.) All the money and all the appreciative fans in the _world_ wouldn’t save Altair from the inevitable smack-down that Malik would inevitably deliver. 

“Idiots,” Kadar mumbled at the screen. Then he dug his phone out of his pocket and checked his watch. Malik was an hour behind him on time which mean he should be out of class and probably foraging for food. He called him and waited (patiently) until Malik picked up. He went clicking around Altair’s youtube channel and found one where Altair was complaining about how Ezio drew a dick on his cast and how he had to find a way to cover it up. Kadar put it on silence (because Altair could ramble for days) and watched him making angry faces at the camera and showing the (poorly drawn) penis on his cast and then motioning at a whole array of Sharpies set out on the table in front of him. 

“What?” Malik finally answered. He was clearly eating something that he hadn’t felt was important enough to swallow before he answered the phone. The obnoxious wet noise of his tongue on his lips was unpleasant in Kadar’s ear. “Shouldn’t you be at school right now?”

“I’m sick,” Kadar said.

“Actually sick or fake-puking sick?” Malik asked. He finished chewing and took a drink of something. “I have ten minutes to eat before I have to run two miles to my next class. Deal with the noise.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You’re making the noise. What did you need?” Whatever he was eating clearly had bread and meat involved. Some kind of sandwich, maybe. 

On the screen, Altair was turning a penis into some kind of elaborate bird perch by shading it in and adding foliage and the outline of a bigger forest in the background. He had the talons of the bird already in place but he hadn’t managed to draw the bird yet. It was not an unimpressive feat. “Have you been on your computer yet today?”

“Fuck,” Malik responded. “What now?”

“I’m not going to be the one to tell you. When are you coming home? Don’t you have finals or something happening soon?”

Altair was making a majestic golden eagle on a wrist cast with Sharpies and his idiot big brother was licking bread out from between his cheek and teeth with the conspicuous silence that meant he knew-something-he-didn’t-want-to-say. (Something bad.) When Malik finally said anything it was said in the universal tone of dealing with small, volatile children. He said, “I’m not sure I am coming home. Leonardo’s is closer and I can get a job and—”

“What?” Kadar shouted at him. He dropped his feet from the end of the bed and threw the laptop up onto it. “What do you mean you’re not coming home? Are you serious? Are you _serious_.” And as it usually happened when he got angry (very angry) his brain dropped every bit of English he’d ever learned. 

Malik’s voice was oh-so-reasonable in a hushed whisper saying, “you’re over-reacting. If we don’t have to pay for the bus ticket and I can get a job it’ll be easier on Mom—”

“To not know that you fuck guys?” Kadar shouted through the phone. It wasn’t fair and he _knew_ it wasn’t fair and he still couldn’t stop himself from shaking and taking viciously, delightful satisfaction in the struck-dumbness of Malik’s silence. 

Oh-but his brother was a snake without a rattle, getting quiet and tense while it waited for a chance to strike. Malik said (oh-so-reasonably), “it will be easier on her if she does not have to help as much with my college expenses.”

“Bullshit,” Kadar snapped at him. “You have a scholarship. You got a full ride. I was there with you, you hypocritical asshole! I had to listen to you _compare_ your options. I had to listen to you _decide_ what school and what money to take so don’t you _dare_ act like you’re being noble.”

“I have to go,” Malik said.

“Yeah I’m sure you do!” Kadar shouted at him. Malik hung up on him because _of course_ he did and Kadar threw his phone at the bed because throwing it at the wall would break it. Unlike super-rich jerks he didn’t have enough money to replace it. His computer was sitting open on the bed with one tab of the browser showing the ‘suggested videos’ and the other open to Malik’s stupid blog. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> See the new post on the Sett?
> 
> Yes I am fine thank you for asking. It was a major sinus infection, and then bronchitis but I’m finally feeling pretty good
> 
> HOW ARE YOU FEELING DESMOND?
> 
> ARE YOU BETTER DESMOND?
> 
> HAVE YOU STOPPED COUGHING DESMOND?
> 
> One day I’m going to send all our conversations to sass-badger so she’ll know what a bitch you really are.
> 
> ARE YOU GOING TO MAKE IT DESMOND?
> 
> DO YOU NEED COUGH DROPS DESMOND?
> 
> Ezio told me that you were doing better. Remember you two got to hang out while I was stuck at the stupid meeting? 
> 
> Have you started dating that girl at the coffee shop yet?
> 
> Which one? Amy? Lucy? Chelsey?
> 
> The one who draws hearts on your cup.
> 
> That’s the design on the cup, idiot. No I’m not dating anyone
> 
> Do you even have sex?
> 
> So you’re a dick. This isn’t news to you. Bragging about being able to buy six phones is a dick move. Buying six phones is a dick move. Calling some guy gay is a dick move.
> 
> Surprise! You’re a dick.
> 
> So no sex then?
> 
> For the love of Christ. Yes, Altair I have sex. With women
> 
> I wasn’t talking about the post calling me a capitalist stooge. Or an attention whore. I meant the Happy Hater one.
> 
> in which case I have not
> 
> Well read it.

Desmond had a whole life that did not revolve around reading the Sett’s three-times-a-week updates. Without Altair physically in the city there was less urgency to try to temper his insanity. (Not much less, but less.) Ezio had custody of the kid for a while and the two of them were making asses out of themselves in a competition to see who could sleep with the most women by the end of the month. (Desmond briefly pointed out to Ezio this was stupid and awful and Ezio pointed out that they would be trying to sleep with all the women anyway.)

Still, Desmond dutifully went home (he was out getting coffee, nobody’s business but his own) and dug his computer out from under the general debris of a game-playing binge he’d been indulging in. He opened it up and blew the dust and chip crumbs away from the keyboard while he waited for it to start. 

There was indeed a post about Altair’s video blithely announcing how much money he had and how great his phone collection was. It was concise (which was unusual for Sass-Badger) but direct and to the point. (There was also a post about how good he was at turning dick pictures into works of art that managed to sound sincere and sarcastic at the same time.) Then there was Happy Hater Monday #020.

“Ouch,” Desmond said to the computer when he finished reading it. He dug his phone out of his pocket and called Altair (because he simply did not want to text anymore). It rang five or six times (nearly went to voicemail) and then Altair answered it.

“Did you read it?” Everything sounded disturbingly quiet on his end of the phone. Desmond wasn’t sure what he expected (or even what time it was where Altair currently was).

“Yes,” Desmond said. “Did you sleep with this girl?”

“It would be really hard to know that since I have no idea who this girl even is. But considering the number of women that I have slept with, I’m sure it’s possible.” Altair sounded oddly _guilty_ and it was not a sound that came out of his arrogant little body very often. “On one hand, I think it’s funny as hell. Because she deserves someone that’s willing to tell her that she’s full of shit. On the other hand, I think she’s actually hurt and up until a few hours ago I didn’t think that was possible.”

“I’m not sure what you’re asking. But laughing at her is the wrong answer.” Desmond said.

“Do I do anything? Do I pretend that I never saw it? Is it business as normal? What do you do when your internet hate-blogger non-friend gets her feelings hurt?”

Desmond had absolutely no idea what one did in that situation but he was trying to work out a way to send some kind of reassuring note to this person about how it’s never as bad as it seemed. (But what good would his note do, really? He wasn’t even involved.) “I think you’ll have to work this one out on your own. Try very hard not to be an insensitive prick.”

Altair’s sigh was not reassuring.

\--

> ### Happy Hater Monday #020
> 
> I receive a great deal of hate mail. I receive an unhappy amount of hate comments. The amount and severity of these comments is usually relatively proportionate to the tone that I use to chastise Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. While I do not agree with using hate to make your point, I concede that at times your emotions overwhelm your common sense. I applaud the audience that feels a fierce loyalty to Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad and is willing to go so far to protect him. 
> 
> Then there is the sort of hate message that does not seek to protect anyone but exists simply and entirely to be hurtful. This week’s Happy Hater will be, maybe, the happiest of all the haters that made it to this weekly Monday feature. You were successful anon. You have made your hatred known. You have hurt me.
> 
> _You hypocritical asshole, you’re not better than a douchebag that runs out on idiots that decided sleeping with him was a good idea and regretted it in the morning. You’re no better than the idiot that slept with a douchebag and wished SHE hadn’t. Stop pretending to be something you’re not._   
> 

Kadar was not Malik. That was perhaps the most important and most overlooked truth of his life. His teachers didn’t seem to grasp it; that was sure. They were full of slow-realizations about how different he was than his brother (and not for the best). His own Mother seemed only dimly aware that Kadar did not suffer from Malik’s iron will. He did not have a complete mastery over his every emotion that allowed him to live on in denial long after normal men would have cracked and died.

Kadar was _human_ and that must have been why he wrote the stupid comment to begin with. He was _human_ and that must have been why he was _proud_ of himself (and proud of Malik for figuring it out) at the exact same time he was _unhappy_. (Sad-and-hurt-and-lonely.)

Mother was in the living room watching some show about gardening when Kadar found her. (He was sixteen, still young enough to seek comfort where it existed.) She looked up at him, seemed to realize he’d done something so stupid he couldn’t figure out how he felt about it, and lifted her arm to invite him closer. When he settled at her side where she could half-hug him, she tipped her head against the top of his. “Did Malik finally tell you he isn’t coming home?”

“I don’t care.”

Mother didn’t believe him and it was because it wasn’t true. The silence of her disbelief stretched until it felt like Kadar was going to break and tell her _everything_. (Would that be so bad, to tell her every one of Malik’s stupid secrets and prove that he was right. Their Mother didn’t love anyone or anything as much as she loved them.) But she swept his hair away from his face and kissed his forehead. “I miss him too,” she said softly. Yes but had she purposefully tried to hurt him? “Let’s go get some pizza,” she said. (His Mother detested pizza.)

Kadar wound both of his arms around her and tried to tell her how much he didn’t deserve it. But the words couldn’t make it out past his tongue. He couldn’t tell her about the fight without telling her why they were fighting without telling her _everything_. So he nodded his head as she rubbed his shoulder with cautious worry.

“It will be okay,” she assured him, “he will come back when he’s ready.”

\--

son-of-no-one: let’s say it all together now, children. Hate is NEVER okay. (2h ago)

“Hey,” Malik said from the open doorway of Leonardo’s room. He half-expected the man to actually be studying and was relieved-wasn’t-pleased to find that he was sitting on his bed with his sketchbook flipped open and his hair pulled back in a ponytail. Leonardo never studied (didn’t have to) and it didn’t annoy Malik ever except when he was twisted out of shape. “Sex?”

Leonardo had an eraser in his mouth and two pencils balanced in his hand. There was smudges all over the side of his hand and across the front of his shirt where he must have been wiping it. All this and it was the perplexed look on his face that was the most ridiculous. He pulled the eraser out of his mouth to say: “I thought you’d be studying.”

“Well, I’m not.”

This did not seem to make Leonardo more inclined to have sex with him. If anything it worsened the look of gathering concern in his face as he slowly lowered the sketchpad down to the bed. “I—”

“Look if you don’t want to, I’ll find someone else. My fucking stupid roommate wanted me to blow him a few weeks ago. I’m sure he’d be up for it.”

At which point, Leonardo could no longer hide the ugly worry. He dropped his pencils back into their case and the eraser with them and got off the bed. He moved like a stork—all legs and near grace—and crossed the distance between them with two long steps to catch Malik as he turned to leave. Because Malik did not need to deal with _concern_ and _worry_. Leonardo pulled him back inside and swung the door shut. 

Malik frowned at him.

“Will it help?” Leonardo asked. For a genius with a penchant for caring too much about the wrong people (like Malik), Leonardo was a spectacular idiot. But his hands were large and sure and resting against familiar places on Malik’s body. 

“It wouldn’t hurt,” Malik said. “I can’t think. I can’t concentrate. I just need it to stop.”

Leonardo considered this as his fingers started working at Malik’s buttons. “This is not a healthy coping mechanism, Malik.” Yeah but that didn’t seem to be stopping him from pushing the shirt off Malik’s chest or moving his larger body closer. “When we have the time, we must talk about better options.”

“Shut up,” Malik said. He pulled Leonardo down to kiss him and thought about nothing—viciously, violently, _stubbornly_ thought of nothing outside the limits of his own skin. 

\--

> [Video starts with Altair looking directly into the camera, an assortment of pens and paper on a table in front of him on top of stack of papers.]
> 
> Altair: So I got stuck in another meeting—completely by surprise—and I doodle while I’m listening to things. Normally, I draw the people in the meeting with me but sometimes I just draw whatever. I like animals. Since I can’t help but notice that my pal Ass-badger doesn’t have an avatar or icon or whatever. So I made one she can use.
> 
> [ _holds up a drawing of a honey badger perched on a pile of butts_ ]
> 
> Altair: I think it’s fitting. Since we’re talking about Ass-badger, let me just offer some advice to her. You see, I can’t help but notice that she has gotten her feelings hurt on the internet. Someone—perhaps someone she knows, perhaps someone she doesn’t—has said something mean about her and despite the fact that we all thought she was soulless, it seems to have honestly hurt her feelings. I understand that feeling, Ass-badger. Now it might surprise you to know this but _I too_ have read mean things about myself on the internet. Things that _hurt_ my feelings. 
> 
> Altair: Let me share with you a bit of advice about how to survive this troubling time in your life. It’s three easy steps. Step number one is to cry. [ _Altair starts sobbing with great exaggeration, pulling at his hair and falls off the chair he’s sitting in to screaming hysterically from the floor. Video cuts to a freshly composed Altair, grinning._ ]
> 
> Altair: Step two is to complain. [Altair pulls a phone out of his pocket, pretends to dial it and holds it up to his face.] And then she said I was a capitalist pig begging for attention from the internet. Can you believe that shit? I am not a pig at all. If I were any kind of animal—which I’m not—I’d like to think that I would be something more attractive. Something more useful. And excuse me for having money. [ _Video cuts to Altair sitting up at the table looking at the camera with an obvious eye of skepticism. There is no more paper or pens on the table but a tall bottle of liquor turned so the label does not show. Music is coming from off screen._ ]
> 
> Altair: Step three? Drink. [ _Lifts the bottle._ ] Sex. [ _Two women come from the left to push their hands into Altair’s shirt and one leans down to kiss him with a laugh._ ] Wish me luck! [ _Altair is pulled out of the chair and off screen._ ]
> 
> [ _Video goes black and comes back to apparently hung over Altair squinting into the camera._ ]
> 
> Altair: My advice is gold, Ass-badger. The morning after is a bitch though.

Ezio simply did not understand. He said it often enough that it was easy to remember but he still bothered to say, “why do you care what this person thinks about you? That leads to madness.”

“Why do you care what those bitchy queers care what you dress like?” Altair asked. It was too damn early in the morning to be awake (so early that Ezio was not just now awake but still awake since the day before). He was wearing the fluffy white bathrobe that had been in the hotel bathroom, his boxers and nothing else while he slouched in the big arm chair in the living space of the hotel. Ezio had brought him breakfast (from somewhere) and Altair wasn’t even awake enough to care yet. 

Ezio’s laugh wasn’t amused in the traditional sense but a shock of startled disbelief. “Come out of the closet, cousin.”

“I’m not gay,” Altair snapped at him. 

Ezio made an exaggeration out of not believing him. “Then you are as big an asshole as your friend on the internet says you are. There are enough assholes in our family without you joining their ranks.” He rubbed his face with his hand and yawned so loud it was nearly a scream in the quiet of the room. “We have to go back home soon. I have another meeting with the producers about my reality show.”

“I’m not gay, Ezio.”

“I wouldn’t care if you were,” Ezio assured him. He dragged himself out of the chair he’d been sitting on and leaned forward to clap a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “I do care if you’re an asshole. When in doubt, ask yourself: what would Desmond do?”

Altair slapped him to get him away from him. “Go to sleep. You’re freaking me out.” 

Ezio laughed at him again. Then he shuffled out toward the door and his own room beyond. Altair was alone in the quiet with cold breakfast and an uncomfortable feeling in his chest. He dug his phone out of the pocket of his robe. (His IPhone, his favorite phone of all of them, even if it was basically useless as a phone.) He checked his E-mail (nothing exciting) and found a new message from Ass-badger.

> Message from **Sass-Badger** :  
> The fact that you are an asshole is a deep comfort to me in this troubling time. Despite the fact that your video is full of objectionable comments and behaviors, it warmed my heart to see that you made a fool of yourself and dedicated it to me. I am going to decline to use the drawing that you made for an avatar for me despite the fact that the quality of your art was admirable.

Altair smirked at that. Then he sighed and looked at the phone working out if he wanted to reply to the comment and decided he needed sleep before he could be trusted to act responsibly. 


	14. Chapter 14

> ### Closed, until further notice
> 
> This isn’t good bye forever. My life away from the keyboard simply demands more attention for the near future than my dedication to providing amusement for Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Until we meet again.  
>  [Posted: 21 May]

Leonardo’s house was spacious enough to afford Malik his own bedroom for the summer and claustrophobic enough for him to feel as if he were never going to be comfortable. The turns and corners of the house were so drastically different than the home that he grew up in. Leonardo’s bright-and-smiling mother so full of natural energy and active acceptance that she was physically tiring to be around.

Malik simply did not need to be assured of his own worth and significance with as much stalwart insistence as she employed. He didn’t want to be congratulated and celebrated for being homosexual and while he was sure that wasn’t her chief goal, it seemed to be a cornerstone of her every compliment and conversation.

Stagnant unhappiness is what drove him out of that house (the one that he was squatting in to keep away from his own house) and out in search of something to keep him too busy to think too hard about nothing. He drove himself insane with thinking. So he’d sat on the bed he was borrowing and he worked out a plan (and he wrote it out, in clean, clear, easy to read script) and it went something like this:

1\. Put the blog on hiatus  
2\. Find a job  
3\. Read a book  
4\. Apologize to Kadar

Malik was off-center and he knew it but he couldn’t figure out how to right himself. There was no sense of direction left in his head. Funneling all his energy into his stupid blog was an easy-peasy-way to pass the time because it was immediate satisfaction. He protested stupidity and was inundated with equal parts hatred and celebration. His life was going nowhere by continuing to amuse Altair while he continued to make an ass out of himself. 

And Kadar wouldn’t even talk to him anymore. He didn’t answer the phone, his e-mail, show up on messenger or text. When Malik called their Mother (as he did at least once a week) Kadar never answered the phone and it was easy to tell when she was not at home because the phone went unanswered. Malik was viciously, violently angry at his brother for his own pitiful self-centered hurt. Malik wasn’t sorry for what Kadar thought he did or did not do. He wasn’t sorry at all that Kadar had to grow up and figure out that life sucked. 

But he wanted to be. He wanted to be the brother he had been last April, the one that liked his brother and had always been available. 

That was gone now, whatever part of Malik that was. So he made a plan and he walked around everywhere close enough to Leonardo’s house to reach on foot in any weather and started filling out applications and recommending himself wherever he could. The first (only) place that bothered to contact him was a Mom-and-Pop style diner that needed a waiter and heard from a reliable source (Leonardo’s Mom) that he was a good kid. 

“So, tell me about yourself,” the owner said, “what are your strengths and your weaknesses?”

Malik had memorized interview questions when he was fifteen, prepared thorough but concise answers to every question that he was asked. He had practiced them in the shower and on the bus and while he was waiting in between his classes. His Mother had played the part of the interviewer with her traditionally stern eyes and her straight-backed posture while she grilled him about everything from his work ethic to his personal hygiene. She’d made sure his shirt and pants were ironed and fussed over his hair whenever he finally got an interview. She’d instilled that neat-and-orderly perfectionism in his head and she’d poured confidence into his chest because she’d never (not once _ever_ ) offered him a compliment that he had not been made to earn. 

You are only as good as you want to be, Malik. 

“I’m eighteen. I’m on summer break from college. I believe that hard work is essential to happiness and success. I’m less good at handling people.” 

The owner just gave him a frank kind of sighing look. The sort that seemed to say that Malik was going to be miserable forever. Then he looked at the application on the desk in front of him (barely a necessary formality). “Well, we have plenty of people that are good at handling people. I need someone that can take an order and remember what table it goes to. The uniform is a white shirt and black pants, wear a tie if you want and I’ll give you an apron. Be here tomorrow at three and I’ll have Yvonne train you.”

Malik smiled because his Mother had put her hands on his face and pulled his lips up at the sides with her thumbs. Her voice like a butterfly’s little wings saying: _smile, my son. You have such a nice smile._

\--

son-of-no-one: just met @Maria_Thorpe, she is such a charmer (5m ago)

Maria Thorpe was not, as a matter of fact, a charmer at all. Her interruption of his life started with her sudden arrival at the Villa Auditore wearing a rather impressively large black hat with a veil that shielded her face and a slim-fitting dress that looked as if it would not have been out of place on a street corner. The most noticeable thing about her was that she did not smile—Altair’s whole family could smile on command and none of them could smile brighter or more convincingly than Ezio.

Altair had happened to be on his way back from the kitchen (where food was kept) when he heard the door and went to see if it needed answered. While there were a whole host of people that kept the Villa Auditore working at full capacity at all times, it was considered a hospitality violation not to answer the door you were already close to. 

“Who are you?” Maria asked him as she unwrapped the massive veil that covered her face. She regarded him as a bit of something that she might have dragged in on her pointy black heels. Her hair was very dark and dusty looking, pulled away from her face by some complicated series of bobby pins and her face was winter-pale. Her lips were a frosty-pink caught in a scowl of disdain for his very existence. The answer must have occurred to her before he could bother to offer an explanation for his presence in this house because her eyes widened oh-so-slightly. “You’re the stupid cousin.”

“That’s Federico,” Altair corrected. 

Maria snorted. She turned toward the sound of Ezio (who had been summoned by the maid that opened the door) and smiled at him with the same false delight that Ezio smiled at her. They embraced like old friends that their body language said they were not. And it was then, in that quiet moment, that the frost familiarity of the woman’s face settled deep enough into Altair’s brain for him to register how he knew her.

“Maria Thorpe,” he all but shouted.

Ezio looked embarrassed on his behalf with one of his hands lingering on Maria’s arm in a touch that was friendly but not solicitous. For one brief moment, he looked as if he were going to overlook Altair’s stupidity but Maria turned her head toward him with a silver-screen smile on her face and one eyebrow cocked for his benefit. 

“Your Mother said I could use the villa while I had a break from shooting,” Maria said to Ezio but she was looking sideways-at-Altair when she spoke. 

“Of course,” Ezio said as if reading lines from a script. “We are only here for the night before we continue on back home.”

Maria looked fully at him then and her smile was a touch more sincere. “I heard you were trying to get your own reality TV show. Perhaps the kid,” she motioned with her whole body toward Altair, “could help you with that. Doesn’t the DeCort empire include a production company or two?”

“Four,” Altair said. “None of which are interested in Ezio’s pitch.”

“I have asked Mother not to call in any favors either,” Ezio said. He shifted just enough to put space between his body and Maria’s. It was a tactical move to allow him enough freedom to run if necessary while remaining close enough to restrain whichever party might need restrained. “I like to know my success is earned, not given,” Ezio said.

Maria nodded agreeably. Then she turned her whole body away from Altair and slid her arm around Ezio’s back and curled her fingers in his shirt before saying (grandly), “show me to my room, Ezio. I think I’ve forgotten the way.”

\--

> FROM: Malik [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Me [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> Remember when we were children, you would get mad at me for not doing exactly what you wanted so you hid in the upstairs closet and would not answer when I shouted for you? I remember being scared the first time, thinking that you had run off or died and Mother was going to kill me for losing you. Then the second time I was angry at you for putting us both through the same bullshit over stupid things. Then the third time I kicked the door of the closet until you cried. You hid in that closet so many times I cannot remember all of them. I remember that I was fifteen the first time I simply did not look for you. I knew where you were and that you would come back when you were ready and I trusted you to know this about yourself.
> 
> Growing up is inevitable, Kadar. Things will change us, things will change between us. I will always be your brother, even when I cannot slip cookies under the closet door to make you feel better.

Kadar was sixteen fucking years old.

He was nearly an adult.

But he hadn’t wanted his brother on the other side of that stupid door so badly since he was still too young to be left home alone. He hadn’t wanted the comfort of knowing that even if he was pissed at Malik (and he was, often) that his idiot-big-brother was right there with his back against the door and his voice in a long-drawl of _sound_ trying to convince him out of being angry or coaxing him out of the closet or once (maybe twice) just reading him the pages of his school books to make noise. When their Mother was nearly home and Malik still hadn’t gotten him out of the closet he stole cookies from the cabinets and wrapped them up in napkins to shoot under the door. 

Malik didn’t want Kadar’s forgiveness when he gave him cookies the way he didn’t want it now. Malik didn’t apologize when he wasn’t wrong (no matter what kind of pain he inflicted on people around him) but he wanted Kadar to be _okay_ despite it. They hadn’t fought over it because Kadar was seduced by cookies and the knowledge that his brother was stupid but capable of guilt. 

There was no comfort in knowing that Malik felt bad now. There was only the emptiness of the house, the absence of his brother in the spaces he should have been and the knowledge of the things still left unsaid. Kadar was left, alone, with their Mother who hugged one arm around her waist in the kitchen while she cooked and hummed lullabies to herself. 

Malik left them. Kadar sent no reply.

\--

Maria_Thorpe: @son-of-no-one, I am as charming as you are handsome. (10m ago)

Maria_Thorpe: RT: “Sunofnone: @Maria_Thorpe, then you must be the most charming woman in the world!” …I think you’ve lost the plot, dear. (7m ago)

After dark, the villa went quiet as the busy work of the day faded into the distant quiet chatter of ongoing life. In the back garden, a bubbling fountain was a pleasant backdrop to a series of muted lights that added ‘ambiance’ and a feeling of imposing tranquility. Altair sat in one of the oversized chairs with the lush cushions with a sketch book balanced on his knees and a veritable buffet of bad choices spread across the table to his side. He’d worked his way through sweets and was working up the energy to move onto more savory snacks.

“Your followers are very intent,” Maria said. She was standing there wearing pajama pants and a long shirt, looking nothing at all like the sexualized starlet of earlier. Her hair was loose around her pale face. Her expression was the same.

“That’s what happens when you’re likeable,” Altair said. 

Maria sat on the chair on the other side of the table. She was drinking something out of a tall glass bottle that he wasn’t interested in figuring out. When she relaxed she made a sighing noise and looked out into the well-lit garden as the last light faded from the sky. 

“Why am I the stupid cousin?” Altair asked.

Maria laughed. “You know why you’re the stupid one.” 

Altair looked at the large statue of the bird (some kind of raptor, an eagle or a hawk) with its wings spread in preparation of flight. The detail of its feathers was amazing even from a distance, the living-realness of it out of place in a garden of muted tones. He had been working on sketching the thing. He was always working on it. Every time he found himself in this place, he was here in this seat looking at that statue trying to figure out why he had to draw it. “I don’t know why you think you have the right to say whatever you want when you know nothing about me,” he said.

There was her laugh again. “Oh you don’t like people saying blank mean things about you?”

Altair frowned at her. 

Maria smiled. “Remember anything you can say about me, I have something even worse to say about you. Remember it when you are bored and have nothing better to do than nag for the attention of your fans.”

At which point Altair slapped the sketch pad on the table and got up. He was _exhausted_ by constant criticism, completely through with being poked and prodded at by well-meaning people with no good intentions. He got up and gathered his things. “Enjoy your stay,” he said before he left.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Where are you? I’ve looked everywhere.
> 
> I was at work
> 
> You work?
> 
> Yeah I got a job a week ago
> 
> You didn’t say anything. 
> 
> I note the past tense you used. Where are you currently?
> 
> I went out to get a drink. I had sex with this guy. I’m walking home.

The weather was mild and the walk was easy. Malik appreciated the solitude of motion. His phone had been silent in his pocket the whole of the day. Nobody had sent him a message, nobody had sent him an E-mail, and nobody had called him.

By the time he got back to Leonardo’s house, it was dark. Leonardo was in the garage-turned-workshop working on an invention that he had (apparently) been working on since he was a child. It looked like nothing (exactly) except a series of pieces not yet put together successfully. Malik sat on the stool that Leonardo seemed to keep around for ornamentation because he never used it. 

“So,” Leonardo said. “How was the sex?”

“The sex was fine, the company was poor.” Malik picked up a screwdriver that was closest to him on the massive work table and set it into a groove that seemed to have been created by this very screwdriver and turned it. “What have you been doing here?”

“This. How is your job?”

“I’m a waiter. I hate it.”

Leonardo snorted. “That is not a job I would have thought you would even be able to get hired for. Customer service doesn’t seem like something you’d be interested in. But, in any case, how did you meet your date?”

“At work. You know how charming I find people who stare at me with their mouths open.”

Leonardo managed to look away from his work long enough to convey his disbelief and then he went back to what he was doing. “So you thought he was an asshole and decided to fuck him anyway?”

“Pretty much. What he lacked in personality, he made up for in willingness. I’m going to bed.” Where he could think about all the things he still hadn’t sorted back into their rightful places and watch movies until his brain felt like soup.

\--

bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, is so vain he can’t resist checking out his own butt (10m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, if your butt looked like mine you’d understand (1m ago)

The whole debacle started because Altair was too bored at Mama Maria’s handsome house to say no when Claudia showed up looking for someone to take out to buy some new jeans. Apparently, her actual girlfriends had all declined to join her (for various reasons) and Cristina was at hiding to avoid the public realizing she was knocked up.

That was how he ended up sitting on the bench in the pants he’d tried on and still hadn’t taken off (they were comfortable and they made his ass look really good) while Claudia pulled her shirt up and craned her head to look at her reflection in the mirror. “Ok, so I want a pair of pants that makes me look good but I don’t want ones that say ‘please ask me to sleep with you’.”

“I’m not sure how much you know about men but you could be wearing a potato sack and they’d still ask for sex.” He stood back up and went over to stand next to her in the same pose. “You’ve got a flat butt anyway.”

Claudia slapped him. “My butt is not flat.” But her focus shifted from her own behind to his in the mirror and she slapped him again. “The least you could do with a butt such as yours is have the decency to be gay. What is the point in having such a butt if you aren’t using it for good?” 

“Women don’t like a nice butt?” Altair said in a high-scandalized voice. “Is that why I can’t ever get a date?”

Claudia laughed. She turned around and tugged at her bra straps through the shirt she was trying on, the action tugged her boobs up higher and she frowned at her reflection. “I want cute boobs,” she said. “I do not have cute boobs.”

“What the fuck are cute boobs?” Altair asked. He tugged at the button of the jeans he had on and wiggled them off his to kick over with the pile of the others he’d already tried on. There was a pair of dull red ones that Claudia had grabbed off the shelf and insisted he try on so he pulled them on. 

“You know, the ones that are small enough that you don’t always have to wear a bra and they are perky with just a little jiggle when you walk.” She was pulling her breasts upward by reaching her hands down the front of her shirt and still made a disgruntled face at the mirror.

“Yeah,” he said as he zipped the (rather tight) pants and pushed his hands into his pockets to adjust them. “I have no idea what you mean.”

Claudia looked at him in the mirror and turned her head to look at him while he kept looking forward and trying to get the pants on in such a way that felt comfortable. “You know how you want to have abs and toned arms?”

“Yeah,” Altair said without putting much thought into it.

“You want your chest and belly to have enough muscle that it is clearly visible but you don’t want to bulge? This is the difference between cute boobs—your desire for visible abs and muscular arms—versus this,” she waved a hand at her own breasts. “These are a nuisance. Also, no amount of tugging is going to separate those pants from your scrotum. That is how they are meant to be worn.” She was now looking at his crotch with far too much interest. “Why does the internet think you have a small penis?”

At which point he made a sound that was as much a squeaking-protest as a squawk of surprise and it was so ridiculous that Claudia laughed at him while he said, “what are you even saying right now? You’re my cousin! Stop looking at my crotch! Did you just say scrotum?”

Claudia was laughing so hard she was clinging to his arm to keep herself upright. “I also said penis!”

“You are insane,” he said to her as she doubled over and laughed. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

When she straightened up again her face was brilliant pink. “No I’m serious,” she wheezed, “why does the internet think you have a small penis?”

“Leaving!” Altair said. He took the pants off though because they were far too tight to be comfortable. The pants he’d started the day wearing were lying across the bench and he pulled them on. 

Claudia had collapsed from laughing at him. “No wait,” she said and caught his hand. “I promise I won’t talk about your penis anymore. Your face was priceless, cousin. I need to try on some dresses.”

“Fine,” Altair said.

\--

son-of-no-one: is there a right answer when a woman asks you if she looks fat in something? (10m ago)

Bestofthree: RT “son-of-no-one, is there a right answer when a woman asks you if she looks fat in something?” yes. The truth. (3m ago)

“Bullshit!” Altair said across the outside table where they were waiting on their order. He had an pretty blue alcoholic beverage because Claudia was driving (and underage still) and there was a basket of fries slathered in cheese and bacon keeping the space between their little appetizer plates hot. “Women don’t want to hear the truth.”

“I won’t deny that I do not represent all women. I merely represent myself but I can tell you with one hundred percent certainty that if I ask if something makes me look fat I want you to tell me the truth.” It was hard to take that seriously when she was shoving ranch-drenched French-fries into her mouth by the handful. Worrying over her weight didn’t seem to have occurred to her. “Which you did. Good job.” She took a drink of her water and licked the ranch off the corner of her lips. 

“But women don’t want to hear the truth,” Altair repeated. “Every time I tell a woman the truth, I’m suddenly an asshole. Why is it expected of me to sleep with every attractive woman I meet that’s willing but not expected that I don’t want more than sex? I don’t act like I want to date anyone. I find some woman interesting enough to have a conversation with and attractive enough that I want to have sex and it’s like a binding contract that means I owe her something or I’m a dick.”

“It amazes me how little you know about the real world,” Claudia said.

“This isn’t the real world!” Altair shouted at her. He drew a little attention from the other patrons that were trying to enjoy their own lunches in peace. One or two of them seemed to have caught onto the fact that Claudia was related to someone more famous than herself or that Altair looked familiar enough to try to puzzle out where they’d seen him before. “The real world is working your ass off to scrape by. I can’t even imagine the real world. I don’t want a lecture. I don’t want condescending disapproval. I want someone to explain to me why I can’t just sleep with a woman without having the seventy percent chance of having to defuse a bomb the next day.”

Claudia wasn’t impressed with his words. “I will make you a deal. You tell me why the internet thinks you have a small penis and I will explain the woman thing to you.”

“I have no idea why the internet thinks—oh, _oh_. You’re a bitch,” Altair said. When they were little, he would have kicked her under the table and ignored her for most of the day because nobody was as annoying as Claudia. Altair had been a round kid ruined by the death of his Grandmother at twelve. Claudia has been a ten year old brat still smarting from the loss of her baby brother. She used to refuse to speak English to him and he used to carry buckets of mud to dump in her bed just to piss her off. “Ok, but why am I dick?”

“I thought your friend Sass-Badger explained that to you?” Claudia smiled so sweet and so terribly that Altair couldn’t stop himself from kicking her shin and she kicked him back with her much more painful shoes. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> On the off chance that my body is never found, Claudia has forced me to join her at a ‘feminist skate party’ in an effort to show me how to ‘hang out with women without sleeping with them’. I tried texting Ezio about it
> 
> But he just said that I should try to sleep with one of them.
> 
> These women might eat me alive when I get there.
> 
> This is why Ezio was never left in charge.
> 
> Do not sleep with anyone
> 
> Unless you find a hot guy you like
> 
> Why the fuck does everyone suddenly think I’m gay?
> 
> what?
> 
> I was making a joke
> 
> who thinks you’re gay?
> 
> Ezio. 

Desmond rubbed his eyebrows with his thumbs and tried really hard not to care. Mrs. Finch was humming while she dug up the family albums (a necessary part of his visit to the old family house each year) and Desmond was considering just putting the phone away and forgetting about it. Altair was with Claudia who was better than most at keeping stupid people from doing stupid things.

“What?” Mrs. Finch asked when she brought her favorite book of the lot back. It was a massive thing, leather bound and etched with elaborate leaves and a little bird with a tiny beak and magnificent wings settled in a fat-round ball on a branch. “You boys and your phones! Put the phone away, Desmond. Whatever is wrong can wait.”

“The baby is causing trouble again,” Desmond said.

Mrs. Finch made a dismissive noise and waved her hands in the air. “When is the baby not causing trouble? Whatever the trouble, you can bail him out of jail tomorrow. You did not come here to deal with his problems.”

That wasn’t exactly true. It was nearly impossible to come to _this_ house and not deal with Altair’s problems. “Do you think he’s gay?” Desmond asked. Not because it mattered (or because he cared, precisely) but because he was going to have to hear about it for a while now. 

“Altair?” Mrs. Finch spread her hand across the top of the photo album and thought about it a moment. “I think,” she said with the deliberateness of a woman who had known Altair since he was an infant, one that had been his nanny and his cook and a makeshift nurse when Grandmother was not around to do it herself. “That if he is, when and if he comes to that realization is his own business and not ours. However, if you’re just asking as a confidential chitchat between us, then yes I think it’s very possible that he finds men attractive. The first person he ever had a crush on was a dark-haired little boy that went to preschool with him. Oh he came home and cried his eyes out over that boy sitting with someone else at lunch.”

Desmond snorted at the image. He looked at his phone and then at the massive photo album from years gone-by and slid the phone to the side. “Which one did you pick?”

“Your favorite,” Mrs. Finch said. “The one from the summer all you troublesome boys came to stay. The last year Edward was here with us before he was sent away.” Then she cracked it open and the smell of old-leather and fine dust gave way to the almost-forgotten scent of his Grandmother’s perfume (to remember me when I am gone, she always said). 

\--

son-of-no-one: had my shirt stolen by a horde of feminists on roller skates. This isn’t a joke, it really fucking happened (5m ago)

Bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, my favorite part was watching you fall on your ass for an hour before you managed to roll forward a few feet. (4m ago)

Son-of-no-one: my favorite part was having glitter thrown on me and listening to women objectify me. That’s not sarcastic either. (4m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I have abs now. I’m a sex object and it’s awesome. (4m ago)

Bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, think of how much more attention you could have gotten if you’d been wearing those red pants! (3m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, we will never speak of those pants again. (2m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, @bestofthree, why do I get the feeling that I’ve missed something I’ll regret asking about? (1m ago)

Claudia had mentioned (at lunch) she had a thing to do that night and that he should come. Ezio had come home with victorious laughter about how he almost certainly had his own reality show. Mama Maria hadn’t been as supportive as one might have liked about the notion of her child being filmed and his ridiculous exploits being available for public consumption. Ezio wanted to go out to celebrate his own fantastic perfection with alcohol and women but Claudia pulled Altair away from her brother (not so differently than every time before) and said she knew where all the real women were.

Altair went with Claudia because Ezio had more friends than he needed and Claudia hadn’t ever asked him to go anywhere with her. The fact that she was taking him to some sort of feminist roller-skating thing was a surprise to him. He found himself standing in front of a table asking for a donation looking inside of an unremarkable building that was packed full of women.

“I’m not sure I’m actually supposed to be here,” Altair whispered into her ear.

Claudia raised her eyebrows—she was wearing a bright pink shirt, neon suspenders and black short-shorts with tall dark socks with tiny pink pinstripes on them. He should have figured out from the outfit wherever they were going wasn’t going to be something he was going to like. But she said, “do you believe men and women are equal?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then you belong. Now give the nice people some money. Not a lot of money. You should never give sizeable donations to foundations you haven’t personally looked into. This is the number one rule.” She pushed him up to the table and he knocked into it and smiled apologetically before turning back to demand what ‘not a lot of money’ was exactly.

Then there was the matter of the dress code that he simply did not meet. Everyone was wearing shorts (because it was some kind of rule for this fundraiser) and Claudia settled that debate by borrowing a pair of scissors and making his pants into shorts. He couldn’t skate and that was problem number three.

Claudia could skate backwards so she gave him a piece of gum and pulled him out onto the polished wood floor and tried to teach him. He fell over a lot and got pulled up to his feet by a lot of women with grabby hands and appreciative winks. 

“This is ridiculous!” Altair shouted when he finally managed to go forward. The music was so loud it was impossible to hear anything. He couldn’t see any other man anywhere and the only person he knew was Claudia. 

There was a quiet lull while speeches were given and Altair half-listened to the details of this foundation’s cause (empowering women to have confidence in themselves and fighting for equal wages and an end of sexual harassment) while he ate nachos with cheese and drank some syrupy soda that tasted like cherry candy. Claudia was standing at his back (listening intently) reaching down to steal his nachos now and again.

Altair distinctly heard the moment the announcer asked any man that was among them to come to the rink. Claudia didn’t ask so much as physically pull Altair to his feet and shove him toward the open side of the rink and propel him awkwardly into the center of the ring. There might as well been a chorus of crickets chirping. Nobody else joined him and he shrugged and tried to turn himself in a circle with landing on his ass.

“Well that’s more than last year!” the speaker said and everyone started laughing. 

Altair took a bow (for their amusement) and nearly fell over. He managed to right himself without having his feet roll out from under him. So he was fully upright when the first woman shouted: _take your shirt off!_ and one voice became another and another until they were all shouting it at him with various levels of amusement and intent. 

Claudia was leaning over the side of the low wall wolf-whistling at him. “Oh do it!” she screamed into the noise, “take your shirt off!”

Altair looked at the speaker who was caught between being embarrassed and amused. He skated over to her little podium and she leaned down away from the microphone to inform her that he’d take his shirt off if everyone gave another dollar on their way out. So she straightened up and said, “now ladies,” she said, “we are not making a good impression on our first male guest. However, he has agreed to take his shirt off if we all agree to chip in an extra dollar to the fundraiser. What do you say?”

A wild cheering went through the crowd and Altair could feel his face going brilliantly red. It was a strange feeling to be in the center of so many eyes, to try not to feel self-conscious about being stared at and then there was Claudia pulling a dollar out of her shorts and tossing it onto the rink. Her first dollar was joined in quick succession by more. One of the ladies that had put the whole thing together started skating out to collect them and everyone fell back into chanting: take it off!

So Altair reached over his head and pulled his shirt up and off. He tucked it into his back pocket and spread his arms (to keep his balance) and turned in a slow, painful circle. He didn’t remember who did it or why but someone threw glitter on him and he spent the whole rest of the night covered in gold glitter with his ears burning as the women talked about his naked torso and other men and what they found attractive about guys.

It was the end of the evening, he was tucked into one of those walled off sections where you take your roller skates off when a tall blonde woman came up to him with a sweet-smile and an uncertain cast to her body language. He looked up (and up and up) at her, “hi,” he said (because she didn’t look like she was going to).

“Hi,” she said, “we have a favor to ask you.”

There was nobody with her. “We? How many are you?”

“Three.” She motioned to the general crowd of women that were behind her as if he could identify the other two that were clearly part of her party. “So you’re son-of-no-one on twitter, right?”

“Yes,” he said. He finished tying his shoes and stood up. She was at least as tall as him (not even on skates) and maybe slightly taller. If he understood the definition of ‘cute boobs’ the way Claudia meant it than this woman might have been proud owner of a set of the cutest boobs ever. “Also known as Altair.”

“So you know Sass-Badger?”

For a moment, Altair wasn’t sure he was living in the real world anymore. There he stood (coated in sweat and glitter) with his mouth slightly agape trying to work out how to respond to that question. He’d been famous enough to be recognized long enough that it wasn’t strange but most women who asked him if he knew someone were looking for Ezio not a faceless woman on the internet. “Yes?” he said, “I mean, I know she exists.”

“Do you think you could get a picture signed for us? The blog was put on hiatus and we haven’t gotten a response from her about the request but I just thought that if you sent her something she would probably respond, right? I mean, it’s you.”

The blog was on hiatus? 

“Yeah, I guess. How am I going to get the picture back to you? Who is in the picture?”

“You can send it to my e-mail,” she said. That couldn’t possibly end well. E-mail addresses were as dangerous to pass out to random strangers as phone numbers. He simply did not do it. “My friends and me and you.”

At that point, Claudia showed up dressed to go and was filled in on the idea, agreed for Altair and huddled the four of them together to snap several photos of them with her phone. (It had a superior camera but inferior everything else to Altair’s.) She took their E-mail addresses hugged them all. 

“You did better than I thought,” Claudia said when they were outside again. “I thought you’d leave.” She pushed her elbow into his side to spare his feelings (perhaps) but there was a look of genuine affection on her face which was a great deal better than usual. “Are you actually going to send the picture to your internet hate buddy?”

Altair shrugged. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Me [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> So, after much searching I managed to find this E-mail posted on your profile page. Please don’t think that I am intentionally disregarding your wishes. I just now saw that you put your blog on hiatus. You will be dearly missed (not only because you amuse me).
> 
> I am only disrupting your peace because while I was attending a shorts-only feminist roller derby fundraiser two nights ago, I was asked to send this picture to you so that you could sign it and return it to me so I could send it to the lovely ladies featured in the photograph. (I am there, shirtless and covered in glitter because of them, not because of me.) Apparently, they are fans of yours and have not received any reply from you. 
> 
> Whatever has taken you away from your mission to reform me, I hope that it is a positive change and that you are happy. 
> 
> Altair.

When Malik opened the picture it was of one blonde and two brown haired girls with their arms around each other’s shoulders and Altair standing in the center with a wide stripe of glittering gold across his bare chest. He was smiling (not grinning) and the background behind him was dim but seemed to involve a great deal of other people and something wood.

The picture itself wasn’t a problem. The story was most likely true going by the various tweets from the man’s account in the past few days. The request wasn’t a problem (because Malik was sure somewhere in the cavernous depths of his inbox these very same women had asked for his autograph). 

No, the problem was that last sentence that hoped for the best on Malik’s behalf. It was the kindest thing that he’d heard since before he went to prom last year. That was an _insane_ notion considering how many months had passed and how many people he’d seen in that time. (It wasn’t the people, it was Malik’s inability to see anything positive. It had always been him.) Malik just sat on his bed with his legs crossed in front of him and his laptop balanced on his knees while he considered what to do.

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  I am answering your e-mail so you can rest your conscience that your request has been received. If you have the contact information of the women that want my autograph please let them know that I will sign this for them when I am able and return it. 
> 
> More importantly, people have used your name as their e-mail address because you have fans. Possibly you have fans that so greatly admire you that they want a to possess a coveted piece of your identity. Or perhaps they took your name in jest. It’s also possible that you are not the only Altair Ibn-La’Ahad in the world although I grant you that it is less likely there is another person with your exact name than your average Michael Smith.
> 
> I’m undecided about the positivity of my choice to put the blog on hiatus. Like every person in the world, I simply need a vacation. Thank you for your well wishes.
> 
> Sass-Badger.

Of course, how to sign the picture was a whole separate problem. The odds that someone would recognize his handwriting was pretty slim (hopefully slimmer than the chance that a semi-celebrity would find his blog and become a fan of it) but the paranoia set somewhere in the back of his head wouldn’t leave him be. He could ask someone to sign it for him but then someone would know that he was Sass-Badger.

Which circled his thoughts back to Kadar and the fact that the brat had still not responded to him. Mother said that he was doing well and that everything was fine. (She said he should have patience for his brother who had always relied on him for support. She said he should remember that Malik had been a brother and a father figure and that Kadar now had neither.) Kadar would have signed the picture for him with a flourish and without a protest. 

He closed the computer before he found himself waiting for a reply and went to find Leonardo. The man was in his own room with his head hanging off the side of his bed and his feet on the wall. The book he was reading wasn’t English but from the distance (and upside down) Malik couldn’t make out what language it was written in. “If you’re a super genius why are you just now in college?”

Leonardo set the book on his stomach. His freckled face was red with blood from hanging upside down. “You’re assuming this is the first time I’ve been in college or that the fact that I am naturally gift with extraordinary intelligence that I should rush through my childhood and into adulthood faster than everyone else.”

“Have you been to college before?”

“I have taken classes from various universities for a while. I was bored in high school. This is my first concentrated effort. What can I do for you? My Mother is not presently here if you were interested in sex.” He rolled over onto his belly and scooted up so his elbows were on the edge of the bed. The book fell on the floor and Leonardo closed his eyes as the blood rushed back into his body where it belonged. 

“Can you make me a series of fancy letters that can be photoshopped together to make a signature without asking me why I need them or what they are for?” Malik said. “Where does your mother go at night?”

“Sometimes she stays with my Aunt because she’s ill right now. I could make you a series of fancy letters that can be photoshopped together and I don’t care what you use them for. How about sex though? If you’re not interested I’m going to have to actually go out and I wanted to finish reading this book tonight.” He picked the book up and slapped it on the table by his bed before sitting all the way up. “If you are gracious enough to accept my offering I’ll even allow you to pick which sort of sex.”

Malik snorted. “You always let me pick.”

“I let you pick because you have all these specific wants and preferences. I, however, like sex in a variety of ways and am usually willing to try anything once. Except fisting because it does not seem appealing to me at all.” Leonardo pulled his shirt off and then ducked forward to drag the box out from under his bed and left it sitting out with his collection of various lubes and condoms. 

“You’re exhausting to be around,” Malik said. He stepped inside and closed the door.


	15. Chapter 15

> **Altair**
> 
> But why did assbadger quit?
> 
> You can’t start a conversation in the middle.
> 
> Also it doesn’t say quit it says hiatus
> 
> Maybe she ran out of things to complain about
> 
> She wrote a blog about me. There is still a lot more to complain about.
> 
> True
> 
> Lucy invited me to a party
> 
> Did she write that on a cup or ask you to your face?
> 
> She wrote loser on my cup
> 
> Well at least you won’t have to live up to unrealistic expectations.

Desmond was not always half-asleep after work. He was only half-asleep after work whenever he failed to sleep the day before because he was too busy playing video games or spending time with the three or four friends that he’d managed to accumulate and keep in the years since he settled in the city. So, he shuffled up to Amy (now with purple hair) with his tie thrown across one of his shoulders and the intoxicating smell of too much liquor wafting off his hands and clothes and motioned upward toward the menu in the universal manner of ordering the usual.

Amy just shook her head at him. “What are you going to do whenever we hire someone new who doesn’t understand this?” she imitated his hand motions. 

Lucy leaned over the rounded counter that contained the actual coffee-making machines (the specifics of which Desmond had never learned beyond that they created delicious ambrosia-like-coffee-beverages). “Yeah, one day we might not be here to translate for you.”

Desmond sneered at the very thought. “Well, make sure you train any future theoretical replacements. You,” he said to Lucy, “you can just never leave.”

Amy rolled her eyes and Lucy smiled before she slid back into the hardly spacious coffee-making lair. Amy took his money with a smile and he nodded his thanks before shuffling over to stand by the square opening where he could watch Lucy work. 

“Are you planning on leaving?” he asked.

“Leave a job like this?” Lucy said. The look on her face seemed to indicate that he was either insane or she was for thinking that anyone would voluntarily work at such a job for the entirety of one’s life. “Don’t worry Desmond, I have no better career opportunities at this time.” She dropped his cup into the open space and turned it very pointedly so he could see the word LOSER written in her usual rounded handwriting. There was a sprinkle of tiny hearts on the cup behind the name. 

“Wow,” he said.

Lucy leaned forward and braced her elbows on the lip of the counter. “So here’s the thing. Every couple of months my girlfriends and I have this party where we have to bring someone a loser—don’t make that face,” as if it were offensive for him to find it offensive that she thought he was a loser.

“I’m a well-respect bartender,” he said. 

“That’s like a hobby,” Lucy contradicted. “Your full time job seems to be baby-sitting your idiot cousin and drinking coffee. You might not know it but you mumble audibly to your phone. If the word ‘loser’ specifically offends you, we generally just bring someone we know from work. Either a customer or a co-worker.”

Desmond was half asleep so it was an honest-to-God revelation when he pointed at himself with the same hand he was holding his phone with and said, “ _you want me to go_?”

Amy just sighed to the side. Lucy dropped her head down to bang it against the counter and then looked up at him again with a pink mark in the center of her forehead. She was going rosy with amusement and it was a pretty addition to her usually chilly-white-face. “That’s where I was heading with this whole conversation. I could bring Amy _again_ but she’s like one visit away from being one of the group so it’s technically cheating to bring her again. Please, Desmond? Please be my work-related-loser?”

“Please save me from this party,” Amy said from the side. “They eat bad food and drink and tell terrible jokes.”

Lucy nodded.

“When is it?” Desmond asked. 

“It’s on the fourteenth. I can pick you up and return you to your apartment. It’ll be great. I’ll give you my number.” Then she pulled out her Sharpie and reached for his hand. He let her write her number on his hand and tried to remember if he was even off on the fourteenth (figured it didn’t matter, at worst he’d just call out sick). “Perfect,” Lucy said when she finished.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> If you see our Mother, please tell her that I was at work and could not answer the phone. I tried calling the house but nobody answered so either you are all out or you’re there and not answering. Either way, let her know.

“At this point,” Leonardo said, “I’m seriously considering tying you to my bed until you have successfully detoxed from the internet in general. There is a whole world out there, Malik. Look beyond the screen of your phone!” 

Malik did not care about the world beyond the screen of his phone. He specifically cared about the world contained in the screen of his phone. About his brother who was probably glaring at his phone and his Mother who might never know that he tried to call her back. “You try to tie me to your bed and I will remove your testicles with a blunt knife.” 

“So you are not into bondage.” Leonardo had caught him as he was leaving work and dragged him out to a park that sat in the center of a square shopping center that was remarkably empty. Malik wasn’t an expert on Leonardo’s home town but it seemed slow as hell compared to his own. There was no room for parks in the center of shopping centers where he grew up and if there were it would have been covered in trash. “Give me the phone.”

Malik was not giving up his phone.

Leonardo reached an arm around him and pinched his ear (hard) then pulled the phone out of his hand and shoved it into his pants. His face was a smug-smile.

“If you don’t think I’ll pull your pants off to get that back you are wrong,” Malik said.

But Leonardo settled his arm more fully across his shoulders and pulled him back to relax into the slope of the bench they were sitting on. He ruffled his long fingers through Malik’s thick hair and then said, “I have no doubt you would. But just for a minute try to appreciate the grass, the sunshine and the air. There are birds eating insects over there, Malik. There are people walking their dogs across the street. A little girl wants ice cream but her Father clearly does not want to give it to her on our left. Soak in these details.”

Malik crossed his arms over his chest and scowled at all of them. The grass was at least half made of weeds, the sun was blinding in his eyes, the air smelled like car exhaust and old wood. The birds were noisy. The dog wasn’t trained well enough not to pull its owners around. And that bratty child was yanking on her Dad’s arm while he was trying to balance his purchases and catch her before she fell into the street. He observed each of the things and then looked at Leonardo who huffed at him.

“There is no beauty in your soul,” Leonardo said as if someone could just say things like that. “You are too practical. You are an old man.” He turned sideways so that one of his legs was on the bench and the awkward rectangular bulge of Malik’s phone stuck out under his pants. “Tell me one good thing you can see from where you’re sitting right now,” Leonardo said.

“I don’t want to play your games, I want my damn phone back.” There was nothing good. The parking lots were empty so none of the stores were getting money. The few people that were out were interested in themselves and not worthy of note. The bench had splinters. The sky was alternatively too bright and too dim with thick floating clouds. Leonardo had his phone held hostage. His shirt had a stain from a dab of ketchup flung from some small child who didn’t know how to use a squeeze bottle. He had gotten shit tips for eight hours of hard labor. He missed his Mother’s phone call and his stupid brother was still ignoring him.

His shoes were uncomfortable because he was wearing his socks for the second day in a row. He was _mad as hell_ and Leonardo was just looking at him with big-round-soulful eyes and some sad attempt at proving a point that Malik didn’t _need_ proven to him. 

“You,” Malik said finally.

Leonardo relented with a puff of air through his nostrils. He said, “tell your Mother, Malik.”

“Fuck you,” Malik snapped at him. He shoved himself away from the bench and managed to get two-three-steps away before Leonardo threw his phone at him. It wasn’t an attempt to get him to stay because Leonardo was walking the other way with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders stiffened in defeat.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> I think Ezio is broken.
> 
> Why
> 
> Hes too happy. I know he’s a happy guy but hes too happy.
> 
> He’s working through something.
> 
> Yeah well, I got dragged into having dinner at Federico’s tonight. Whatever the hell Ezio is working through I just need it not to end with cops.
> 
> You worry too much.
> 
> Ezio knows how to hide a body
> 
> Reassuring. You’re not.

“You just better finish whatever conversation you’re having there because I am putting your phone in the NO box when we get to my place,” Lucy said. It was dusk outside, the murky sort of daylight that wasn’t quite ready to give way to real dark. The traffic was terrible (as it always was) and the interior of the car smelled like the cross between cheap pizza and take-out Chinese that was filling up the backseat of Lucy’s very small car. She didn’t turn her face away from the road to make sure he understood the absolute truth of her words but her eyebrows twitched as the smile on her face turned pointy and mean on the edges. 

“You didn’t specify this was a no cell phone party whenever you tricked me into coming,” Desmond said. 

Lucy made a noise. “It’s not a no-cell-phones party for anyone else. But I swear to God ever since Little Tommy went on a semi-permanent vacation you’ve done nothing but frown at your phone. You’ve actually doubled your caffeine intake since he left and while I like seeing your face at the shop, it’s worrying.”

“I have other people I talk to on my phone,” Desmond said.

Lucy actually laughed at him and then slapped a hand over her mouth like she was embarrassed about it. Except there was pink in her white cheeks and on the rounded tips of her ears. “I’m sorry. I’m sure you do. Friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, you know whatever. Other people besides your cousin.”

“I have friends,” Desmond said. Because he did have friends. “I have ex-girlfriends but I’m not excited about talking to them. Never had a boyfriend. Not really something I’m into. That isn’t the point. If you take my phone, it’s very possible that one or more of my cousins will die tonight.”

Lucy made a turn that pulled them out of the worst of the traffic and led them down into the more modest part of the city. “Well, then I hope you have funeral clothes.” She parked and they set to work extracting all of the boxes of food from her backseat. When she straightened up again and slapped the pizza box across the roof of her car, her face was pulled sideways in a tilted frown. “I won’t take your phone if it’s that serious.” The effort of those words obviously pained her.

“The two most stubborn members of my family are about to eat dinner at the stupidest person in the family’s house. Both of the stubborn assholes have pretty good reasons to be pissed at the stupid one. Someone is not making it out alive.” Desmond was only somewhat kidding about that issue. His hand was still folded around his phone while he held onto the bags of Chinese take-out with his other fist. “Of course,” he said to the (obvious, wounded, pouty) look on Lucy’s face. “I can’t actually do anything. They’re in California and I’m here.”

“There has to be someone on the west coast that’s trustworthy enough to hand this problem,” Lucy said hopefully.

Desmond nodded. He shifted his hold on the food so he could send Claudia a text telling her he was taking the night off. Her response was an unhappy emoticon. Then he followed Lucy up to her apartment to meet her four friends and their various work-buddies. He gave his phone up at the door and it was indeed dropped into a box that had the word NO written on it several times (in many languages). 

“Desmond!” Lucy shouted and motioned at him. “Everybody,” she said as she motioned to them.

Everybody was primarily women. There was one other man there and he looked caught between horrified to have been caught by so many women and pleased to see another man enter the room. The small living room had been rearranged to provide a large center space that was covered with an old rug and a big blanket. There were boxes stacked on a table against the wall that seemed ominous. 

“Desmond is the—” one girl started.

“Guy from the coffee shop!” another woman finished.

“The one who has the hot cousins,” the dark haired lady on the couch said. She dug her elbow into her neighbor’s ribs and they both giggled. They exchanged not-even-slightly-sly conversation about whether or not he shared the family looks. 

Lucy came back with a stack of paper plates and a tub of plastic silverware. “If any of you asks one question about his cousins, I will stick your head in the toilet and pee on you.” This threat was either laughable enough not to be taken seriously or said often enough that it was a joke only the central four friends understood. Half the room laughed and the other half smiled reflexively. 

The party was primarily set up to allow people to eat piggishly, talk loudly and drink. There was a movie and a drinking game and the other man that had come to the party (Aaron something) ended up being really competitive about the drinking game while half the women broke off into a subsection of discussion over some actor’s life’s choices. That left Lucy at his side with nothing but a tank-top and some pajama shorts on while her face got all pink from drinking. 

Desmond bumped into her with his arm when he was also suitably intoxicated, “how am I going to get home?”

“I don’t care,” Lucy said with a bright-bawdy laugh. She took a drink and almost missed her mouth and Aaron (the obsessive guy with the list of reasons to drink) told her that nothing happened in the movie. But Lucy was looking right at him with an idiot’s smile on her face and her hair half out of her usual pony tail. “You can sleep in my bed.”

“Where are you going to sleep?” Desmond asked.

Lucy’s exaggerated face of shock was the most ridiculous thing he’d seen in months. She put her fingers across her gaping mouth like the very notion had only just occurred to her that if she gave away her bed she’d have nowhere to sleep. Then she said, “in my bed.”

“I snore,” Desmond said.

“I’ll punch you,” she assured him. Then she rose her cup and he knocked his against her and they both gulped the remaining liquor while Aaron protested about how nobody was playing the game correctly.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  I apologize for the delay in returning this photograph to you. It has been signed and can now be delivered.
> 
> Sass-Badger.

Altair just forwarded that note right along to Claudia who was the one in possession of the relevant E-mail addresses and the actual ability to care about following through on her promises. Altair was normally at least partially capable of following through and sometimes even cared. 

Currently, he was sitting on the tub in Ezio’s (bachelor pad) house watching the man himself puking violently into the toilet. His hair had come free from the band that usually secured it away from his face. It was only Ezio’s fist that was keeping it from getting thoroughly disgusting with some combination of vile liquor-and-last-night’s-dinner puke and toilet water. His whole body was seizing up with the power of his puking and the smell in the bathroom was growing steadily more unbearable. 

“Why didn’t you marry Cristina?” Altair asked. It was something that everybody had been meaning to ask (or maybe they did ask, Claudia probably asked) but nobody had ever answered. Altair hadn’t ever asked because he was not frequently an important part of Ezio’s life but more like a bit of ornamentation or a borrowed pet. Five months of roaming through Europe had made them better friends but it wasn’t until last night when Altair was obliged to suffer through the worst family meal ever that the question really seemed important. 

Federico had been painstakingly polite. Cristina had been obviously pregnant and hesitant.

Ezio had simply been a belligerent ass-face who said little, spoke infrequently and made a point of mentioning how happy he was for his brother no less than twenty six times. Every time he said how pleased-and-happy-and-glad he was Federico’s attempt at maintain a smile grew a little tighter until Altair was fairly sure one of the two brothers was going to lunge at the other. That hadn’t happened but Ezio had followed up the debacle by drinking half a liquor store and ranting about how stupid Federico was and how he, Ezio, was not going to be tied down in familial obligations because he was ‘his own man’ and ‘wanted to be free’ before passing out abruptly on the couch.

Right now, Ezio turned his head (face all shades of greenish) and wiped his mouth on the back of his free hand before reaching up to flush the contents of the commode away. (It improved the smell somewhat.) He settled his weight firmly onto his ass in such a way that someone might have thought he was shifting an entire mountain of bricks rather than his own body. “She did not say yes,” Ezio said. 

That was somewhat less of an explanation than Altair anticipated. “I’m sorry.”

Ezio shrugged, pulled a rag from off the back of the toilet and wiped his face (again). “What about you? Have you ever been in love?”

“Ha,” Altair said. “No. I’m not sure I believe in such a stupid idea.” 

Ezio’s face was spotted pink and red and he still managed to look unimpressed and flatly disappointed with him. “Love is a necessity, not a want. You must love someone, Altair.”

“Why?” Loving people hadn’t gotten him very far at all in life. Loving people had just been another way of getting fucked over. Some part of him thought he must have loved his father in those brief years before he died and every part of him knew that he loved his Grandmother and she had died. He thought he loved Mama Maria and Giovanni (thought he had loved Federico and Ezio and Claudia) enough to matter but in the end he couldn’t take the pity in their faces and the polite-but-strained obligation that bound them to him. He emancipated himself at fifteen-and-seven-months and followed Desmond out to the East coast.

Ezio sighed. “We are worthless without it.” Then he started vomiting again.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Why do you always call me Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad? I have a first name. I know that you know my first name. You probably know my middle name. You probably know how much I weighed at birth. So I don’t understand why you don’t just call me by my name. Are you waiting for permission? Are you using it ironically? Are you attempting to prove how annoying a single person can be? 
> 
> Try it once. It’s much easier to type. Altair. See, much easier than Ibn-La’Ahad.
> 
> I have sent the picture to the girls. They were very excited to receive it. Apparently, there is a great number of fans that would be delighted to have your autograph. I’m supposed to tell you this. So I did.  
> 

The letter followed Malik through the day. It stuck in his head while he listened to rambling orders given by rambling customers. It nagged him when he was refilling drinks (again). It assaulted him when he was trying to be patient with the three year old that kept throwing peas on the floor and the parents that allowed the child to do it.

Malik did not actually know how much Altair weighed at birth. He did kinow the man’s middle name. He wasn’t even sure why he’d settled on using his last name to address him other than the mocking formality of it. (Because, surely, the fact that he’d had Altair’s dick in his ass alone was a good enough reason to be comfortable with calling him by his first name.) 

That wasn’t even the problem. The problem wasn’t what Altair was asking him but that the idiot, the man who had more money than any single person should have, and family and an endless supply of people throwing themselves at him, was sending him E-mails like poking him with a stick. 

It was the idea that this asshole _missed_ him that nagged him. Altair-fucking-Ibn’La-Ahad _missed_ him with enough conscious awareness to send him annoying e-mails and Malik’s own fucking brother was still ignoring him.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Everyone alive?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> How drunk did Ezio get?
> 
> Yelling in Italian, fell asleep mid-sentence, puked for an hour.
> 
> That’s better than expected.
> 
> Hey.
> 
> what?
> 
> Nothing

Desmond woke up next to Lucy. She was a mess in the morning with her hair in knots and one of her eyes glued shut from sleeping. Her breath smelled like a swamp and she slapped him in the face when she stretched her arm out to the side and forgot he was there. 

“Oh shit,” she said and then, “oh _Desmond!_ ” Then she rubbed his face like it was going to make it feel better and bit her lip and looked comically caught between mortification and amusement. “Sorry.”

Desmond put his hand over hers to reassure her that he’d suffered worse fates. “I’m okay.”

They extracted themselves from bed and ended up in the kitchen while Lucy made the breakfast she insisted he eat before he leave and he looked over his missed texts. There was clearly something that Altair wasn’t saying. But then there was a cup of coffee set in front of him and the delicious aroma of it was more important. 

“It’s not your usual,” Lucy said. She sat in the chair to his right so she could see the pan on the stove and his face at the same time. “But it’s pretty decent.” Her hair was held back away from her face by a loose pony tail and she was yawning still. 

Desmond took a drink and nodded his head. It was good. It was very good. “Maybe I should just come to your place for coffee. Might save me a few thousand dollars a year.”

Lucy snorted. “Or you could buy a coffee pot.”

“I have two. I don’t know how to use them.” Because he didn’t.

“I could show you sometime,” Lucy offered. “Again, not that I don’t like seeing your face but you’re a grown man. You should know how to make a pot of coffee.” Then she was up again and back at the stove. 

“Sure,” he said. “Probably still just going to walk to the coffee shop though.” 

Lucy just shook her head at him. “You are hopeless, Desmond.”

\--

son-of-no-one: not trying to be a dick here, please skip the lecture about how women don’t exist solely for sex but why do (4h ago)

Son-of-no-one: women dress in clothes that are CLEARLY meant to get attention if they don’t want attention? Trying to figure out if a woman (4h ago)

Son-of-no-one: is interested or even approachable is bad enough without having to decipher if her stare at me clothing is supposed to (4h ago)

Son-of-no-one: invite you closer or ward you away. I don’t get it. Why? (4h ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, if you’re trying to harass Sass-Badger out of retirement, I think you’re on the right track (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: well if ass-badger has an answer I’d love to hear it. (2h ago)

Malik had left to walk to the store. He had assured Leonardo (who seemed concerned almost constantly) that he was going to return soon and left to walk to the store. He probably could have written an entire venomous essay about why women dressed the way they dressed and posted it. But he was attempting to maintain his hiatus (and failing since he was still checking the idiot’s media pages). So he took a walk.

Leonardo was on the porch when he finally made it home (two hours later). Leonardo was on the porch with a bottle of water and his car keys clutched in his long-fingered hands. That look of half-desperation on his face morphing at once in to furious disbelief (to see Malik had returned with nothing) and terribly-unwanted-worry. “Where the hell have you been?” Leonardo demanded. “I called you!”

Malik sat on the steps next to him like his legs were going to go out from under him. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and turned it back on.

“Your phone was off?” Leonardo said.

It didn’t really matter that his phone was off because nobody ever called or texted him anymore. But he nodded and swallowed back against the thickness in his throat. “Yeah,” he said. “I—met this guy.”

Leonardo made a noise like deflating. “You met a guy?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. “In the produce section of the grocery store. There was this whole implied thing about vegetables being relative to the size of our penises or something. Do I just look gay?”

“Yes,” Leonardo said. “You look gay because you are gay and as a gay man I can tell you that you look one hundred percent gay. Move on with your story about the guy you met and why your phone is turned off and why I shouldn’t strangle you for leaving for _hours_ while you’re in the middle of a complex mental breakdown and I couldn’t figure out if I should call the cops or not.”

Malik looked at him and thought it would be funny but Leonardo was serious. The pink on his face just behind his freckles was fury (not humor) and the tightness of his hands around his knees was a creaking edge of worry that was almost painful. 

At this point, shame wasn’t even an unusual thing for Malik to feel. It was just a fact. “I’m sorry,” he said. “There is no story. I fucked the guy in his car then I left. I don’t even know what his name was.” Wasn’t that terrible? Shouldn’t that have been worse to admit? “That’s not who I am, Leonardo.”

There, at least, Leonardo’s anger softened and he drew a breath in through his nose. He put his long arm around Malik’s shoulders and rested his cheek against the top of his head. 

“And every,” Malik said (as his throat started to ache and his face got hot), “guy that I fuck, I just think how much more disgusting I am. How much more my Mother is going to hate me when she finds out. I mean—do you know what they do to people like me?”

“Yes, I looked it up,” Leonardo said softly.

“I keep _doing_ it. I stopped myself for so _long_. I never thought about it. I never wanted it. I just _ignored_ it for so long.” At this point, his voice was a shuddering, foreign thing barely crawling through the thickness in his throat. “I always knew. I _always_ knew. I just never—and then that stupid asshole _broke_ me. And it’s like I can’t stop now. It’s like I know what it is and I want it and there isn’t anything _wrong_ with it. And I’m still _disgusting_ and I hate myself and I can’t—” Stop crying.

Leonardo rubbed his back and held onto him as he ground his teeth to force his chest to stop heaving tried to press his hands against his eyes hard enough to keep them from producing more tears. And when Malik was sucking in wet breath in an attempt to _stop_ , Leonardo said, “you are exactly as you should be. Regardless of what your Mother says or does, you are perfect exactly as you are. The only person on this planet that you have to answer to is yourself.”

Malik turned his head and their faces bumped together. “But she’s going to hate me. I should be dead.”

“Your Mother is not only her chosen religion, Malik. You should give her the chance. You should tell her so you can stop torturing yourself.” Leonardo leaned back enough to look at him and all the anger and worry from before seemed a bit like pride. “Also, I’ve slept with enough people to fill a book and there is nothing wrong or disgusting about it. Sex is only as big a deal as you allow it to be.”

“I have noticed your very casual attitude toward sex,” Malik said.

“I would hope it’s become apparent by now.” Leonardo swept all his hair away from his face and kissed him on the forehead. Then he knocked their heads together and got up to his feet. “Come on, you clearly are too stupid to be left alone and I’ve been yearning for someone to read to.” He dragged Malik up to his bed and stroked his hair while he read to him. “Tomorrow you can buy a bus ticket and I’ll drive you to the depot.”

Malik sniffled as he was dragged up to Leonardo’s bed to have his hair stroked and be read to.

\--

> ### It never fails, you go on hiatus and…
> 
> …some dumb jerk asks a stupid question.
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  I see you are confused about many things. Allow me to answer your most pertinent question first and please be assured that when I am properly returned from hiatus that I will have a better answer. 
> 
> On the matter of why women dress in attention grabbing clothes if they do not want attention, allow me to say: women dress how they dress because it is how they want to dress. Imagine, if you will, a world in which both men and women were allowed to dress themselves however they wished without worrying that the length of their skirts, the cut of their pants or the fit of their blouses and shirts will lead to unwanted advances from the opposite sex. Imagine, a world in which every person was comfortable wearing what they wished for their own unique, personal reasons. 
> 
> If you are capable of imagining such a fantastical place you may be capable of divining the reason women wear ‘attention grabbing’ clothing. If you cannot imagine such a thing, just pretend that every woman you feel is wearing clothing purposefully to attract you is dressed in such a way to warn you that they are NOT interested in being touched.
> 
> sincerely,
> 
> Sass-Badger
> 
> o **the-real-son-of-no-one**  
>  So pretty women in bright, tight, attractive clothing are to be considered poison dart frogs? 
> 
> o **Sass-Badger (moderator)**  
>  …I can’t figure out if you are intentionally aggravating me for attention-seeking purposes or if you are really just an asshole. I’m going to assume the first as the latter makes me far too sad. Yes, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Please do not touch the poisonous frogs.

“What a bitch,” Altair said to his phone screen. He tucked it away into his pocket before Mama Maria could see him with it and lecture him about phones at the dinner table (again). And managed to be looking up and smiling before it was his turn to participate in conversation.


	16. Chapter 16

> **Malik**
> 
> I’m coming home.
> 
> Since that seems to have failed to provoke a response from you, I am specifically coming home to tell our Mother I’m gay.
> 
> I miss you.

Kadar had been looking at the same too messages for hours. Hours and _hours_ of turning his phone over in his hand and staring at them and trying to forget about them while he did things. He’d mowed the lawn. He’d cleaned the living room. He’d dusted the shelves. He had even gone to the kitchen and cleaned the fridge (a chore that he detested more than others). By the time his Mother got home from work he had vacuumed the couch and was laying on it in his worn-out-jeans and his mismatched socks with his shoulders against the arm of it and his knees as close to his body as he could get just staring at the stupid phone.

Hours of his life had been spent trying to figure out how to unhinge his jaw and force words from his throat. Everything he thought was angry-as-hell ( _who cares what you do now? Who cares when you weren’t there when I needed you?_ ), was hurt ( _I missed you too, you idiot_ ), was vicious-pleased-and-satisfied ( _I hope she hates you, you big fucking coward_ ) but it was the worry ( _I don’t want you to tell_ ) that stuck his teeth together. 

Mother took in the state of the living room, yard and fridge and came back to find him still sitting on the couch. “Would you like to talk?”

Yes. Kadar would like to talk. Kadar wanted to pour out all of the things in his head that went from I-hate-him to Mother-would-never. And sometimes veered off course into trying to figure out what would happen if his Mother was capable of hating Malik. The idea was _insane_ set against the hours of their lives that she had spent with him. It was ludicrous that she could hate the son that she loved with such ferocity for so long.

But Malik’s doubt persisted in Kadar’s head. So he just shook his head and got up to retreat to his room where he could stare at his stupid phone.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I have arrived alive.
> 
> Call me if you need me. 
> 
> I mean this. Immediately call me.
> 
> Do not do the thing where you hide first.
> 
> I’ll try to remember your number while I’m being stoned to death
> 
> I also read you could be thrown from tall buildings.
> 
> Sometimes you should not share so much information.
> 
> I’m sorry. Go find your brother and hug him. Give him my number. Tell him to call me.
> 
> I think I got it now.
> 
> Oh good, it’s just my Mom who’s picking me up. That’s an optimistic start.
> 
> Hug your Mom too. Call me.

Malik did hug his Mother. It was not so much his decision or even a decision at all. Because he was just barely upright (trying to stand up from the bench he was sitting on) when she pulled him into a hug that was so tight it squeezed all the air from his lungs. 

Oh-and-everything about it was everything-that- _home_ was made of from the smell of her soap to the faint aroma of black pepper and cinnamon. Her slim body and her bony arms and the way she rubbed the center of his back.

The paradoxically mix of anger and shame that had followed him every day since he woke up in a dirty hotel room could not possibly have overcome the feeling of comfort that came with such a hug. He put his arms around her (even pulled sideways by the weight of his laptop bag) and closed his eyes against the reality that awaited them. It didn’t matter what he’d done or what he had yet to say so long as he could take this moment and memorize it. 

Her hands were on his face (always were) and she smiled at him with wet tears in her lashes when she said, “welcome home, my son.” 

“Thanks Mom,” he whispered and if she noticed how hoarse his voice sounded, she did not mention it. Instead she motioned him onward away from the bus depot and the people still waiting for their ride and out to where their car was.

\--

son-of-no-one: apparently, I’m going to be an episode of that one cop show with the annoying theme song (10m ago)

Son-of-no-one: if you look closely, you can see that I never stop smiling. (10m ago)

Altair ended up in an episode of some crime-scene-investigating show because Ezio was convincing and the people he paid to make him look good told him that he needed more public exposure. Which was funny, retrospectively, since a large part of his time in the episode was spent on a coroners table as naked as one could get on public TV wearing just enough make up to make him look dead.

The director’s head had nearly exploded from half-expressed rage over Altair’s inability to keep a straight face while he played dead. “Who cast you?” was the director’s final demand at the end of a thousand takes of the same scene.

“I think I own the company that produces the show,” Altair said.

At which point the director’s face turned purple and his assistant offered him a diet cola and they both shuffled away with steam rolling out of their ears. The other actors in the scene with him were frowning because they were tired of the same damn lines already and Altair smiled (charmingly) then flopped back down on the table. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> It’s been a whole day. Are you alive?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Excellent.
> 
> You never told me who took your virginity.
> 
> you never asked and I won’t tell you
> 
> You are no fun.

Kadar was at home when Malik got there but he did not emerge from his room. Mother fed him reheated kibbeh and asked him about his trip. He regurgitated facts about his bus mates and the stuffy heat of the bus with its barely functioning air-conditioning. Every word he said seemed as fascinating to her as a treasured story so he found himself telling her all about how he’d been a waiter for a month and half and how he hadn’t liked it at all. 

She shook her head, “you are always making things so difficult for yourself.”

He shrugged it off and she allowed it. But before she let him go to his room, she hugged him again, pulled him down with her soft hands on his face and kissed his forehead. 

Mother went to bed, woke up and went to work and Kadar still had not come out of his room. Malik slept in fits listening for the sound of his brother’s door opening (or any sign of life from within, really) until he heard the car start and his mother depart. Then he got up and went to the kitchen to find the hidden stash of cookies on the highest shelf. He grabbed a handful of napkins and took the whole lot back upstairs.

Kadar’s door was a mess of stains from when he was little and liked to scribble pictures across it. He’d spent half his life washing crayon and marker off the door but the residual marks remained as a testament to his inability to learn. Malik stood in front of it for a minute (feeling very stupid) and then reached up to bang on it as hard as he could without knocking it open. 

“I know you’re in there!” he shouted. 

Nothing.

So he started beating on it again, until his ears were ringing with the sound and Kadar couldn’t ignore it and kicked the door in rebuttal. Malik put his forehead against the chipped and worn old paint. “If your plan is to hide inside of your room until I leave again I hope you thought far enough ahead to bring food and water.”

Nothing.

Malik kicked the door and Kadar uttered a noise that could only be described as a squeak. He must have been leaning against it. (Of course he was.) Then Malik huffed a sigh and sat on the floor. He opened the cookies and listened hard for the flop of his brother dropping down to sit on his own side of the door. “I passed my classes,” he said. He wrapped one of the cookies into a napkin and set it on the wood floor before pushing it forward with one finger. It went under the door with ease. “Probably not the biggest concern of yours. Mom did tell me you finally passed French. That’s good.”

Nothing.

He wrapped another cookie. “So I was working as a waiter. There was this couple, an older couple,” he slid another cookie under, “that always came in on Tuesdays and ordered the same exact thing. Every freaking Tuesday it was the meatloaf dinner with green beans and peaches for her and the bacon cheeseburger and fries with shredded cheese on top for him. She drank diet cola and he wanted unsweetened tea. Every fucking Tuesday. So, after three or four weeks of this, the guy,” another cookie, “says to me, _we’ve been coming here six years and you are the first person to get our order right two weeks in a row_. How can you mess that order up? How?” 

“Are you really going to tell Mom?” Kadar asked. His voice was only barely muffled by the wood. His back was pressed against the door (doubtlessly) and his greedy fingers were waiting to pluck up another cookie. 

“Yes,” Malik said. He already had another cookie wrapped so he shoved it under the door too. “It’d be nice if _you_ weren’t mad at me before I did though.” Because he was scared and _alone_ and he didn’t want to be. “I’m supposed to give you Leonardo’s number so you can text him if I get stoned to death.”

“Don’t joke about that,” Kadar said. “Mom _loves_ you.”

Malik pressed the seal on the cookies shut again and turned so his back was braced against the door jamb. “That’s not the problem. Her beliefs—”

“If you want to find a reason to hate yourself there are better options than using our Mother,” Kadar said. “You’re a bitch, for instance. You pick fights for no reason. You treat people like they aren’t worth your time. You _never_ fucking apologize because you always think you’re right.”

People frequently (constantly) underestimated Kadar’s ruthlessness because he had an angel’s face and the outward demeanor of a small, fluffy kitten. Malik reached over and smacked the door with the side of his fist hard enough it made Kadar knock his head against the wood on the other side. “So, the reason you’re not chewing through your weight in bacon is what exactly?”

“That’s different,” Kadar said. 

“Sadly,” Malik said, “it’s not. I apologize when I’m wrong.”

Kadar laughed like a donkey choking to death. “You _never_ think you’re wrong!”

Because, most of the time, Malik wasn’t wrong. There was no reason to apologize for other people’s feelings when what he’d done or said wasn’t wrong. He wasn’t responsible for everyone else’s personal feelings and it was literally impossible to please everyone. He could only act as responsibly as possible and trust that it was enough. “Oh, please tell me what I’ve done to wrong you.”

“Fuck you,” Kadar snapped at him.

“I seem to remember it was you, not me, which went out of their way to be mean. I went to college, you insulted me.”

There was a scuffle of noise on the inside of the room and then Kadar was yanking the door open. His hair was a mess, his eyes were ringed with dark circles and he looked as if he hadn’t changed his clothes in days. (Smelled the same.) He was furious when he shouted, “you didn’t _go to college_ , you _ran away_ and you had _no intention_ of ever coming back!” 

Malik took the opportunity that was presented to him and tackled his brother with a hug. It nearly knocked them both over. The wall by the door was what saved them from toppling to the ground. Kadar’s hands went reflexively to shove him off but slid around his back instead. 

“I am so angry at you,” Kadar said.

“I missed you,” Malik said back.

“You’re just so stupid.” Kadar was hugging him and that was all that mattered.

\--

son-of-no-one: apparently, when promoting an episode of a show that is openly mocked by everyone, the guest star (and I use this term (5m ago)

Son-of-no-one: lightly), should not then refer to the obnoxious opening credits as ‘annoying’ else it makes the show look bad. (5m ago)

Son-of-no-one: oops. (5m ago)

Bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, this is why you had no friends as a child. (5m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, bitch please I had the best friends money could buy. (3m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, I would like to be able to say this isn’t true but then I remember the time you literally paid people five dollars to come to your party. (2m ago)

Bestofthree: @shirley-templar, @son-of-no-one, this is my new favorite story (1m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, @shirley-templar, I hate you both. (1m ago)

Ezio was never around because he was neck-deep in talking to the relevant parties about his own reality show. So he was off selling himself to whoever was interested in buying and that left Altair with nobody to entertain himself with except Claudia who was often seen with a gaggle of giggling girls.

Desmond was in New York and Altair simply wasn’t ready to go back there yet. It would have to happen (it always did) because he was sick of bouncing back and forth between Mama Maria’s and the hotels of the area. Europe had at least been entertaining enough to hold his interest but he’d spent half his life in California and it still wasn’t his home.

“Stop pouting,” Claudia said when she found him out by the pool. “You have an ugly face when you are pouting. My friends are coming to swim and you cannot be ugly.” 

Altair rolled his eyes and frowned all the harder at her. She opened her water bottle and threw all of the contents at him with a shrill, pleased giggle before taking off running for her life. He chased her through the garden and back around to the pool where he finally caught her in a move that threw them both into the deep end (fully clothed) and they clung to the sides with grins.

“See, now you are handsome,” Claudia said. “Nobody likes a colicky baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” Altair said.

“You are _the_ baby, Altair. You will grow old and gray and you will always be _the_ baby. It is simply the way it is.” Then she splashed water at him and he splashed it back and they were still making a mess of the pool area when her friends showed up.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> This is Kadar, Malik’s much nicer and smarter younger brother.
> 
> Ah, I am Leonardo the guy he sometimes sleeps with.
> 
> Please tell me how things go.
> 
> I will

Malik took his computer chair back the instant he realized that it had been stolen because traumatized by the possibility of Mother no longer loving him or not, Malik’s possessiveness superseded common sense.

“Have you been watching the new videos?” Kadar asked when it was the middle of the day and there was nothing to do but dread the inevitable. “I mean, he hasn’t posted a lot lately—since that one where he mocked you getting your feelings hurt.”

“I think that was meant to be sincere,” Malik said. He was leaning back in his computer chair with his arms over his head and his feet on the wall behind his desk. Kadar was laying on his bed picking through his worn-out-books (looking for the ones he needed for summer reading he hadn’t started yet). “I’m starting to think that he just can’t control his impulse to be an asshole but if you look past the offensive exterior, his _intentions_ are usually good. Except the homophobic thing.”

“You must be a terrible lay,” Kadar said.

Malik actually turned around in the chair to glare at him for the suggestion. “Or he’s so deep in the closet he doesn’t realize he’s there.”

“Whatever,” Kadar said. “I bet you wouldn’t be so pissed at him if he had the body then that he has now.”

“I’m not that shallow,” Malik retorted. “I’d still be pissed at him. I just wouldn’t be as bitter about giving up my virginity to a twink.”

Kadar tried very hard not to laugh at the ridiculousness of that statement. He failed, but he tried. So he sat up and crossed his legs in front of him. “At the risk of getting more information than I want, why the hell did you sleep with him anyway? I mean I get that you were drunk but how did you go from the prom to a hotel with the guy?”

Malik clearly did not want to share that information. For a minute it seemed as if he simply would not share that information. In fact, it seemed as if the words were having to detach themselves from the lining of his throat and crawl to freedom across his tongue. “I don’t remember all of it,” he said (as a disclaimer), “but I remember that he looked really pathetic standing by himself with his hands in his pockets getting alternatively ignored or assaulted by everyone. He ended up by the punch table talking about how he never went to a prom and I’m pretty sure we had got into a debate about whether or not proms were a waste of time and money. I think that’s when the punch got spiked because I don’t remember everything that happened directly after. He offered to buy me food and we got pizza and then we didn’t have anywhere to eat it so he rented a hotel room? I have no idea how we ended up having sex from there. I remember parts of the actual sex though.”

“Yup, too much information don’t share.” Kadar picked at his brother’s dusty blankets and threw little lint balls to the side. “So,” he said, “if you had another chance to sleep with him would you do it?”

Malik’s scoff was damning. “No.” And he clearly understood that nobody believed him because he had the grace to look embarrassed. He turned his chair back around to face the wall and put his feet back up on it. “But you make a good point. He has really improved his body this year. There has to be a way to point that out without making it sound like I find him attractive.”

“Yeah, sure. Because he’s not attractive at all.” Kadar threw a lint ball at Malik and it had no hope of hitting him.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I’m telling her now.

It was the cabinets that Malik stared at (not his Mother). Those stupid cabinet doors that had been the constant source of frustration for the better part of his childhood. The lower ones that he’d always been assigned to clean and the upper ones that looked perpetually dingy. His Mother had hated them constantly until she finally decided to take them all down, strip the paint, sand and refinish them. 

Kadar had been a fat-faced-kid then, (three or four) with sticky fingers and an inability to leave things alone. Mother was patient but Malik never understood the art of patience. They’d spilled the stain all over themselves and the cabinets and spent a year looking at the wide swaths of spilled stained that no amount of time or care could cover up. Then Mother wanted to paint them black.

Then they painted them white two years later.

They were currently a pleasantly-neutral cream color with black knobs. 

His Mother pulled a chair out from the rickety-round table that sat against the cramped wall in the kitchen. It was a relic from so many years ago Malik could barely remember a time before it existed. Its purpose in their already small kitchen was to be a place for Kadar to sit while their Mother cooked (breakfast or dinner) in those very long-ago days when the boy couldn’t be trusted to be out of sight. Malik had taken it over to do homework with his Mother’s peaceful humming as a soundtrack to soothe his anger and aggravation over prepositions and fractions. Kadar took it up as a homework table by the time Malik no longer needed it.

Now, Malik was looking at the chair his Mother bought at a thrift store, at the home-made cushion one of her friends had given her and then back up at her face. Mother had the ability to be both formidable and compassionate in equal measures and her face was a confusion of the two. At the end of a long day at work there was a pinch of exhaustion around her mouth but she looked at him with sincere _concern_ he hardly deserved.

Malik didn’t sit. “Mom,” he said, “I’m gay.” His heart was a pounding pulse in his chest and his hands were pressed against his thighs to keep them from shaking. Every part of his body felt unstable and useless and for one moment he was grasping at the fading wish that this was all a nightmare and he'd never said those words out where they could be heard.

Then his Mother slapped him.

It wasn’t the physical sting of it (but that was significant) but the unmitigated _shock_ of it that made him blurt out, “Mom!” He didn’t have the presence of mind to decipher what he was feeling but there were tears in his eyes and both of her hands on his face. He put his across hers and barely heard what she was saying over the rush of sound rolling inside of his own skull. 

“You stupid boy,” she said to him. (There were tears on her face.) He didn’t know what she meant at all but her arms were over his shoulders and he was collapsing into her body with a ripping pain in his chest and his arms looped around her back. He was crying on her shoulder like a child as she tightened her arms around him. Her blunt nails (always filed so neatly back) were digging in through his shirt like she could hold him any more securely. “Did you think I didn’t know?” she said. Her kisses pressed against his hot face and into his hair. “I carried you inside of myself, I nursed you when you were a baby, I raised you from an infant to a man and you think I didn’t know?”

With no ability to complete his own thoughts and put ideas into words, he barely managed, “but you hit me.”

Then Mother pushed him away and smoothed her hand across the stinging pink mark she’d left on his cheek. “Because you thought the worst of me, Malik. You are _my son_. Allah himself could not force me to stop loving you. I have waited for you to come to me with this confession for years now. I thought you would realize it for yourself and you would trust me with it. But you did not. You ran and you hid and you punished your brother. You have made me ashamed of the man I raised and that is why I hit you.”

“But—”

“There is no but,” Mother said. “There is no exception to my love. There is no law greater than it. I admit, had you told me when I first thought it myself that I would not have behaved as calmly but, I would have always chosen to love you.” 

“I’m sorry,” Malik said. Mother was wiping his face with her fingers and he was just standing there feeling so desperately grateful and so basically unworthy that it was impossible to sort out which he felt in greater amounts. 

Mother shook her head much the same way she had always shaken her head over him when he came crying over his own failures. Then she motioned toward the chair she pulled out for him and took a seat in her own. “Tell me how you have been, Malik,” she said.

The smile that cracked his face was tear-stained _relief_. “I hate being a waiter.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Did I mention I was the smarter brother? I am.
> 
> Do not be so tough on your brother. Some people cannot see the obvious.
> 
> If by that you mean some people always expect the worst than you’re right
> 
> Anyway, he’s fine now.
> 
> Thank you for sending him home
> 
> I am glad that he found his way back.

Kadar listened because he was sixteen and deeply interested in what happened in the kitchen but when the worst passed and Malik stopped making the awful hitching-half-crying sound and Mother’s voice was a soft melody saying what Malik should never have stopped believing, Kadar left. He went to his room and sent a message to Leonardo (who was very worried, Malik told him) and laid on his bed.

He looked at his ceiling and he thought of nothing but the pleasing lightness of his being. He must have fallen asleep because Malik was in his doorway with his face freshly washed and his fist knocking the door open saying (far-too-loudly), “Mom’s going to take us to eat gross American food, get up and change your clothes.”

Kadar fell out of bed in his haste and Malik laughed at him all the way down the stairs.


	17. Chapter 17

> ### Mark the Date, folks: July 2nd 2007!
> 
> I flatter myself to suggest as much but I feel fairly confident that this is the day Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s head will swell to such fat proportions that it will pop free of his neck and float upward toward the heavens. Not only have I returned after a long hiatus (I apologize to any of you that remain) but I return with perhaps Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s personal favorite feature of the blog: a congratulations post! 
> 
> Not just any congratulations post but one that is superficial in the most basic of possible ways. I invite you to consider the following two photographs, friends and readers and join me in the simple joy of appreciating what a great deal of effort can do for a man’s physique. 
> 
> The first photograph is from Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad an unthinkable fourteen months ago when he was skinny and toneless. You’ll note the softness most visible on his belly and the slimness of his arms. The second photograph is from just a few weeks ago (provided by Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad himself, used with his permission) that shows a far different version of the same man. There is noticeable definition in his abs, a good growth of muscle in his arms and (dare I say it) a general glowing confidence emanating not from the hollow self-assurance of being rich and moderately decent to look at but the knowledge of being capable of something. 
> 
> Good show, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, you are healthier, more attractive and more tolerable than you were fourteen months ago. Please celebrate this news accordingly and refrain from making me regret my words.

Kadar was eating an ice pop as he perched precariously over the screen of Malik’s laptop. The dripping red disaster had already soaked a soppy paper towel and left sticky-wet-streaks all over his brother’s hands. Malik had one hand out below Kadar’s fist to catch the drips (there hadn’t been any yet) while his idiot brother read the post. His eyes moved in quick darts back and forth (Kadar read faster than anyone Malik knew, except perhaps Leonardo) and then he straightened up and licked the melting sides of the ice pop. “Yeah, but it would have been easier if you just said ‘I’d hit that’.”

Malik sighed. 

Kadar smiled with his red-red-lips and moved out of the way of his computer chair so he could sit back down. “Are you going to hook up with that guy you slept with during Christmas break?”

“It’s only Christmas break if you celebrate Christmas,” Malik said. He hit the post button on the blog and leaned away from the screen.

“Why do you do that?” Kadar asked.

“Correct you? Because you’re wrong.”

“Not that.” Kadar licked a long trail of sugary red syrup off his knuckles and gave the wadded up napkin up for lost. Instead he let the drips land on his shorts without caring. “I know why you do that. I’ve been your brother for the past sixteen years. And you’re wrong. It is Christmas break. It will always be Christmas break. You will never convince me it is not Christmas break. That’s what it is called, that is why it exists. Why do you lean back in your chair when you post something?”

“What?” Malik would have protested how he didn’t do any such thing but he was leaning so far back in the chair that it was actually tipped back and his feet were on top of the stack of old text books he’d had to buy for his college-level courses. “I—didn’t realize I did it.”

“Nobody’s coming through your computer screen,” Kadar said. “I don’t know if that was your worry. But if it was—don’t worry. It won’t happen.”

“Thank you for reassuring me. I was very afraid that people were going to climb out of my screen like a dead girl out of a well.” He rolled his eyes and stretched his arms over his head. It was still early enough that he hadn’t bothered getting dressed yet and was still wearing the band shirt he’d bought during a fundraiser.

“You know,” Kadar said again as he got up to his feet. The remains of the ice pop were cradled in one of his cupped palms dripping out between his fingers. He was scrubbing the drips up with his socks as he shuffled to the door. “He’s gotten buffer but you’re still the same shapeless blob.”

There were several good replies to that question. Many of them that actually addressed the issue that Kadar rose (namely that Malik should take up exercising) and maybe one or two that bothered to deal with the larger implications (that Kadar thought he should compete with or make himself attractive to Altair). Then there was settling forward in the chair and saying, “yeah but I’m a bottom and I’m supposed to be soft and cushy.”

Kadar’s eyes went all round and he stood there with his mouth open and the ice pop dripping a rain shower of staining red drops onto the floor. Then he made a noise between shriek of outrage and a shout of embarrassment. “Shut the fuck up,” Kadar said after. “You?” That was not the reaction Malik expected. “You flip your shit when the toilet paper is stacked the wrong way! You let someone else…top you? Wait!” Kadar shouted. He gave up all pretense of holding the ice pop and the stick and the remains of it fell on the floor. “You let Altair do that to you?”

“I honestly do not understand how your brain works,” Malik said.

“I’m sixteen,” Kadar said flatly. “You let that guy,” he pointed at the picture from the year before, “stick his penis in your butt?”

At which point, Malik had to shove him out of the room. He got up and manhandled Kadar until he was facing out toward the door and ignored (mostly) his insane cackling and his attempts to keep from being ejected from the room. Kadar grabbed his doorframe and threw his weight back against Malik. His socks slipped on the rug in the hallway at the same moment Malik’s feet slipped in the ice pop mess and they knocked their heads together hard enough to see stars.

Kadar went down laughing the whole way. Malik stayed on his feet, rubbed his head and used his sticky foot to shove Kadar into the hallway. Then he slammed the door. Kadar’s ridiculous wheezing cackle echoed through the door. “You should have learned by now!” Kadar shouted at him, “you can’t gross me out, Malik. But I always get you!” He was just so proud of himself.

“You’re stupid!” Malik shouted back. 

“Whatever. Do some sit-ups!” Then Kadar was picking himself up off the floor and retreating away from the door.

\--

son-of-no-one: for anyone that’s interested I did not sell my soul or trade sexual favors to gain the sudden approval of the ass-badger. It’s just that she finally saw reason. (36m ago)

EzioAuditore: I’m am certain you have to possess a soul in order to sell it. (23m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @EzioAuditore, also pretty sure @son-of-no-one sold his soul to get a better metabolism when he turned thirteen. (18m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, @shirley-templar, ha ha ha ha ha ha, ha.

Altair was shower-damp and hiding in his room at Mama Maria’s grand house (waiting to find enough care to leave the relative anonymity of these familiar walls). His bed was a dominating feature of the room so he had a spread of electronics across it from four of his original six phones and his laptop. He was wearing a pair of boxers and scrubbing his hair dry (thinking of a proper way to reply to Sass-Badgers oddly jubilant congratulations) when his door was abruptly shoved open.

Claudia was standing there in her bikini, clutching a towel in her hand as she opened her mouth in the singular fashion that meant she was about to start shrieking at him in Italian and he was expected to understand and respond accordingly. 

There were two options, really. He could sit still and let her shout at him or he could run for his life. (There was also the option where he tried to figure out what he’d done to piss her off and talk his way out of it. But honestly, Claudia got upset about the most random things.) Altair did the wisest thing a man in his position could have done and leapt off the bed and toward the door. 

Claudia’s shout of hateful aggravation echoed down the hallway after him. Altair ran on bare feet that slid across the overly-shined floors as he took the first corner that would lead him back to a staircase. And her footsteps were echoing back after him as he ran into the bannister of the grand staircase (the showy one that faced the front of the house). He took half-a-second to consider the stupidity of the action before he braced his hands across the top of it and jumped over the damn thing. His hands tightened on the rungs of the bannister and he slid down it so he was dangling above the first floor. There was a rug beneath him that did almost nothing to soften his blow as he landed. 

“Altair!” Claudia screamed at him. 

He took off toward the back hallway that led to the side garden and ran into one of the maids with a crash of cleaning supplies. He grabbed her by the elbow and apologized, “sorry, I’m sorry,” before he put a finger to his lips to quiet her protests and went running toward the door again. 

It was seven steps from precious freedom when Mama Maria (unfortunately just coming in from looking over her garden) stopped him with a single raised eyebrow and a damning lift of her chin. Her hands smoothed over her practical apron that hung over her summery-dress. There was something so regal and maternal about her that made him feel constantly like nothing but a sticky-fingered-six-year-old apologizing for leaving stains on her furniture. 

“Altair,” she said, “you seem to have forgotten your clothing.”

Altair could have talked himself out of that very correct observation if not for Claudia crashing into the wall behind him and the subsequent dash of her footsteps forward. She slapped him hard on the back of his right shoulder (a bright, red stinging pain) and then grabbed him by the face and pulled his attention to her pinked-face and angry scowl. Altair just nodded at Mama Maria.

Claudia looked at her Mother and straightened her posture but didn’t bother to curb her anger. “What were you thinking?” Claudia demanded of him. The words were fast and righteous in Italian. (The language that was stuck in Altair’s head as the sound of angry women, possibly because of the two currently boxing him in place with disapproval.)

“What is this about?” Mama Maria asked. Her voice was a cool interjection.

“He slept with Delilah! And he slept with Marissa!” (The so-called friends that Claudia kept inviting over to bask in the sun with her. Which amounted to a great deal of mostly naked women frolicking in or near water and then baking golden brown in the sun afterward.) Her finger jabbed at his chest and Altair crossed his arms in defense.

“Really?” he said.

“Yes really! There is a rule!” Claudia shouted. “You may not sleep with my friends.”

“Apparently, you did not tell them this rule.” Because, he hadn’t even been the one to come up with the idea the first time (oh Marissa) and when he flirted with Delilah she had all but dragged him into the downstairs linen closet in her haste to get him naked. “What is the big deal?”

Mama Maria made a low noise of disapproval. It was a sound that Ezio could imitate perfectly. The sound that had become synonymous with an impending lecture. Altair looked away from Claudia and waited for his Aunt to chastise him instead. “Perhaps you should return to New York. Too much time around my son has brought out the worst in you.”

That was frankly ridiculous.

“Even Ezio knows not to sleep with my friends,” Claudia said again. “What am I supposed to do now? Huh? They both know about the other one and now they are not speaking to one another!”

“That’s stupid,” Altair snapped at her. “You women are the ones that have to complicate everything! Why can’t you just have sex with someone and move on?”

Claudia sucked a breath in through her teeth and Mama Maria rubbed a finger across her eyebrow. The two of them looked at him with such pitying dislike that he did not even need to know what they had to say. 

“Fine, I’m leaving,” he said, “no need to kick me out, I can find the door.” He went back upstairs with far less excitement. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Is your birthday on the eleventh or the thirteenth?
> 
> 13th
> 
> And you are going to be how old?
> 
> 19
> 
> And you were hold old when you lost your virginity?
> 
> 17
> 
> And how old was the other guy?
> 
> Is there a point to all this?
> 
> Yes. Answer the question.
> 
> Older than me.
> 
> I am testing your level of paranoia. You see I’ve developed a theory that you are either ashamed of who took your virginity or you have some other personal reason for keeping the secret.
> 
> Its unlike you to keep secrets.
> 
> Because the whole time you’ve known me I wasn’t keeping a secret from my own mother.
> 
> Hm.
> 
> What?
> 
> Nothing. I will most likely forget your birthday. So Happy Birthday early.  
> 

Malik took up running in place of finding a job. He’d had a job for the past three years (against his Mother’s wishes, even) and the money he’d earned and not spent while working as a waiter was still sitting in his bank account. So he enjoyed the nothingness of having little to do and a lot of time to do it in. 

Running suited him because he’d always walked (everywhere) because he hadn’t ever liked taking the bus (except when it was necessary). Walking was fine as well, except that it seemed to do very little for him besides keep him from getting fat. (An inability to remember to feed himself assisted in that goal as well.) Running worked for him because he got sweaty out in the hot summer sun, he improved his tan (at least on his face and lower arms) and it took him places he didn’t go because they took too long to reach while walking.

Places like the hotel he’d run away from the year before. It was a chain hotel, something that looked like it rated maybe three stars and nothing at all like something Altair would have chosen. The pizza place they got their pizza from was three blocks to the west and the prom had been held at the high school that was a few miles to the north. What twists of fate (or drunken nonsense) ended with them at this hotel had skipped out of his brain on black clouds.

Malik was soaked in sweat and otherwise unpleasantly disgusting by the time he slowed to a shuffling walk outside of the hotel. He came to a standstill with his palms rubbing at the damp sides of his shorts and his hair dripping sweat onto his face and the nape of his neck. 

Running, he had found, had the habit of taking him places that his deliberate, conscious mind would never consent to walking to. It was largely stupid (and he could admit that because he was honest) but he offered the hotel something like a salute (thanks again, old pal) and then started running again.

\--

>   
> ****
> 
> Claudia
> 
> You need to take the baby back.
> 
> Do not ignore me, Desmond.
> 
> Call him and invite him back to New York. Bribe him with alcohol and women if necessary.
> 
> Why?
> 
> Haven’t you heard? We women are unreasonable!
> 
> I haven’t heard anything from Altair
> 
> What?
> 
> Nothing about you.
> 
> Stop calling him the baby.
> 
> If he stops acting like one, perhaps I will stop calling him one!
> 
> He threw a fit and left.
> 
> Like a baby.
> 
> And you are doing what?
> 
> Bitching. Like a bitch.
> 
> Right.

But there was also:

>   
> ****
> 
> Altair
> 
> So ass-badger has the hots for me.
> 
> I really hate that name. Why can’t her name be easier to spell. This keyboard is stupid.
> 
> Finding the dash annoys me.
> 
> But seriously, she thinks I’m hot now.
> 
> Ezio wants me to get back into ‘the public eye’ because he needs the public to be interested in our family. 
> 
> I’m not our family. I’m already in the public eye.
> 
> Some photographer wants to take pictures of me though.
> 
> With clothes on?
> 
> Yes. I think its jeans or something?
> 
> You do look good in jeans.
> 
> Ezio said I need to do it for ‘exposure’.
> 
> Are you going to do it?
> 
> Probably. Are you dating that girl from the coffee place yet?
> 
> No. But she started running with me in the park. Since you’re never coming back
> 
> This girl wants to jump you so bad she’s exercising with you.
> 
> Yes. That is exactly it.
> 
> Is that why you took up running with me?
> 
> No. You’re not my type of woman. I remember you threatening to tell lies about me on the internet if I didn’t take up running.
> 
> True.
> 
> Still. Lucy is a friend. Sometimes men can have female friends.
> 
> And sometimes pretty women want to fuck you, Desmond. It happens.
> 
> You just never see it.

Lucy was late and that was how he’d ended up dragged into two separate conversations on his phone. Admittedly, if Claudia hadn’t ranted at him about Altair he would never have thought there was something amiss with him. Altair had been prone to moodiness his entire life, usually wavering in a set range of petulant or spiteful and sometimes circling back to something approaching _calm_. 

It was three-or-four minutes after the final text before Lucy showed up smelling like a coffee shop with her work clothes still on. She had her shirt halfway unbuttoned and a hair tie hanging out of her mouth as she tried to pull her long blonde hair up away from her face. He’d only seen it down a few times (and never while they were running). The thickness of it still amazed him when he watched her trying to wrangle it back into a precise ponytail. “Sorry,” she said around the hair tie, “end of my shift, guy comes in and orders like nine drinks. Each of them with this list of stupidly detailed directions. I was this close,” she held up her fingers with barely any space between them, “to throwing a jug of milk at his head. But hey, good news is I’m here.” She got her hair up and finished unbuttoning her white shirt and pulled the undershirt up out of the waistband of her pants. 

“You could have just called and said you couldn’t make it,” Desmond said. “Or taken the time to change.”

Lucy waved her hand to the side. “I forgot my clothes at my apartment. If I’d gone there I never would have made it here. While I think you’re insane for voluntarily running circles, all that crap you said about improved energy seems to be true. What’s that face?”

“Nothing,” Desmond said.

“Liar,” Lucy sang at him. “Well, come on. Let’s do this then.”

\--

> ### Mark the Date, folks: July 2nd 2007!
> 
> I flatter myself to suggest as much but I feel fairly confident that this is the day Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s head will swell to such fat proportions that it will pop free of his neck and float upward toward the heavens. Not only have I returned after a long hiatus (I apologize to any of you that remain) but I return with perhaps Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s personal favorite feature of the blog: a congratulations post! 
> 
> **(Read More)**
> 
> • **The-real-son-of-no-one**  
>  I think I speak for everyone when I say it’s nice to see you’re capable of any level of happiness. Don’t know what drugs you’re on but like the effect they are having on your personality.
> 
> • **Sass-Badger (Moderator)**  
>  I specifically asked you not to say something stupid.
> 
> • **The-real-son-of-no-one**  
>  I apologize for implying you were capable of happiness. Do forgive me.
> 
> • **Sass-Badger (Moderator)**  
>  If you’re going to apologize the very least you could do is make it sound believable. Don’t equate drugs to happiness, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. It not a good idea for many reasons.

Kadar wasn’t going to say that maybe he agreed with Altair about Malik finally finding a little bit of happiness in the world. It wasn’t that it wasn’t true. It was that one simply should never accuse Malik of having the frivolous ability to maintain happiness (ever). 

“He’s got a new video!” Kadar shouted from his room. Malik had just gotten home from running (which mean he looked and smelled disgusting) and was on his way up the stairs after rifling through the fridge for something to drink. He stopped in Kadar’s doorway with his shirt off and his whole body drenched in foul smelling sweat. 

“Exercise or stupidity?”

Kadar said, “floor is made of lava? Apparently it’s exercise? It’s him and his cousin doing some kind of challenge at a playground or something. He just put it up like half an hour ago.”

“Are you subscribed to his channel?” Malik asked.

“Yes,” Kadar said, “me and a million other anonymous people who want to watch him do stupid things.”

“He has more than a million subscribers,” Malik said. He rubbed his face with his shirt. “Right, let me take a shower. Then we can watch it. Have you watched it?”

“No. I was reading all the comments on your congratulations post,” because Kadar’s life was so incredibly boring that he had no other source of entertainment. (He could have gotten a job. But then he’d have a job.)

“That post is almost two weeks old. Why is it still getting comments?”

“Yeah why is the post where you publically admit that Altair is physically attractive popular on the internet?” Kadar repeated. “The mind _boggles_. I heard he’s got some gig as a model for some brand of jeans only reach people can afford.”

Malik gave him a look that was meant to convey how unhealthily committed to his brother’s obsession Kadar was. And then he turned and left without comment. 

\--

Son-of-no-one: I got beaten by a GIRL. Feel free to laugh at me as long as you like. She wasn’t even a big girl. (3h ago)

BestofThree: @son-of-no-one, Perhaps if you were half as concerned with perfecting your balance and coordination as you are with whining to the public and being purposefully and maliciously (2h ago)

BestofThree: @son-of-no-one, demeaning to an entire sex, you wouldn’t be losing to anyone. As you seem incapable of putting such an extreme effort into yourself, please remember that not (2h ago)

BestofThree: @son-of-no-one, only did you lose but you lost so utterly and completely that shame will haunt you until you die. Put the phone down and apply some ice to your bruised ego, cousin. (2h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, my sister is not a girl. She is a feral animal masquerading as a person. (1h ago)

BestofThree: @EzioAuditore, Keep talking, cazzo. (1h ago)

Altair ended up at Ezio’s second-favorite club. He didn’t usually go alone (he didn’t usually like clubs) but the idea of blending in with a crowd of people seemed infinitely more palatable than sitting around waiting to see what his various cousins thought of him. There was a genial anonymity on a dance floor. People might have recognized him for who he was but they didn’t want anything from him but money and attention and when he felt like giving it, he did and when he didn’t, he did not.

Nobody expected anything of him on the dance floor (until some woman with a come-get-me smile wandered into his path) and he wasted away half the night trapped sandwiched in bodies and drinking bright-colored shots that tasted kind-of-like candy. 

In a surprising twist of fate, he did not even sleep with anyone. He went back to the hotel (by cab, of course) and was assisted to his room by a helpful bell hop who did most of the work and accepted the tip that Altair gave him very graciously. Then he climbed into his bed and wallowed in drunken self-pity until he fell asleep.

In the morning the list of missed calls and messages was excessive (even for his family that needed to say one-more-thing) so he ignored it and pulled his computer over toward him to waste time looking at nothing on the internet. The comments on his video were largely uninspiring (imagine that) but a few of them managed to stay relevant to the video. Many of them were complimentary to Claudia (who deserved it) and her excellent ‘form’.

It was a Thursday and there was no chance that his friend hadn’t said something about his tweets or his video. So he looked up the Sett’s website and was greeted with the rather uninspiring:

> ### Oh, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad
> 
> It is truly amazing that you have managed to turn out so ignorant of so many things with women like @BestofThree in your life. There is nothing I could say in response that she has not already said. Except, perhaps, that despite the fact you lost you seemed to be enjoying yourself and performing admirably. Instead of thinking of it as losing _to a girl_ , think of it as losing to a superior athlete. As Ms. Auditore is indeed that.

The post went on to outline the events of the previous day. There was almost two hundred comments and Altair really could not be bothered to read through those too. He closed his computer and kicked the blankets off. His phone was under his pillow and he dug it out and considered texting Claudia some manner of apology and decided not to. She would either exact her revenge or wouldn’t. His apology would do little to sway her one way or the other.


	18. Chapter 18

> **Ezio**
> 
> We have a problem
> 
> Yeah, I cant ever seem to get any sleep and your familys forgotten how phones are meant to work
> 
> You are an old man, complaining about nonsense.
> 
> We have a serious problem.
> 
> Ill pretend im awake enough to care
> 
> Your baby has gotten a tattoo.
> 
> not a baby not mine.
> 
> where and what of
> 
> His wrist. Three series of numbers.
> 
> well he always liked math
> 
> 17 02 1986
> 
> 20 10 1990
> 
> 08 04 1998
> 
> thats just petulant.
> 
> That is all you have to say?
> 
> Im trying this new thing where I let Altair do stupid shit and not worry about it.
> 
> besides youre the one that was supposed to be looking after him
> 
> I’m serious, Desmond. This is bad. He is not okay.
> 
> You think hes ever going to be okay if we keep shoving him around
> 
> maybe hes trying to deal with it finally
> 
> If it gets worse I am delivering him to your door.
> 
> deal

Desmond was awake enough to stare at his phone’s screen. He was awake enough (now) to look at those stupid numbers and feel a pang of something that felt a whole lot like sympathy and judgmental disapproval at the same time. His kid cousin was a pain in the ass almost every hour of every single day that he had been alive. His primary problem revolving around his inability to not say stupid things.

But there was bleak deliberation in the use of those numbers. 

Ezio was alive with worry over this sudden crack in the shell that Altair had constructed for himself. The persona of an idiot that was disinterested and careless with his things and people. Ezio had spent too long buying into the notion that Altair was a shallow asshole with a penchant for casual sex and momentary pleasures. (Why wouldn’t he think that when it was their sole source of bonding? Why shouldn’t he think Altair was exactly what he presented himself to be?)

Desmond sighed. He set his phone down and resolved to go back to sleep until Altair inevitably texted him the happy news that he’d permanently branded himself. His morbid joy in the act would undoubtedly require more attention that Desmond’s current exhaustion could provide. 

(Yet, he could not sleep, thinking that he’d been there-and-seen the devastation two of those dates had wrought.)

\--

> ### I’m sure you’ve heard the news the same as I have…
> 
> This congratulations post will be short and sweet. Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad has finally gotten a job, even one that is momentary as can be possibly imagined: a job is a job. Very well done, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. May your brief stint in modelling go smoothly and your body inspire millions to purchase clothes that cost the same amount as a week’s worth of groceries.

School was starting again in a month. Kadar was starting his junior year of high school (girlfriend-less) and Malik, the consummate overachiever, was heading back to college to start his junior year of college. (Truth be told, Kadar wasn’t even sure that was a thing.) “Mom said I should have signed up for more high level classes,” Kadar said. 

They were attempting to make dinner for their Mother. Malik excelled at tasks that were menial and boring but he lacked the heart and conviction that it took to cook a truly impressive meal. Kadar had eaten enough of his technically sufficient meals to know the important difference. Still, they were making an effort toward surprising her.

“Do you want to take them?” Malik asked. 

Kadar laughed at the very notion. “For a moment, pretend that you are judging me with the same standards that you apply to yourself.”

“Then you should take more advanced classes.” Malik dusted his hands off on the apron tied around his waist. A summer of running circles around the city had shaved away the former pleasant roundness of Malik’s waist. He was angles now with bone ridges and flat planes. The sight of which much have offended him because he’d taken up doing sit ups when he couldn’t think of how he wanted to phrase something. Right now, he picked up his cup of water and took a drink of it before saying, “but you’re not me. You are you. Our goals are different and you shouldn’t be judged by the same standards.”

“Yeah, you say that like you’re basically saying that I shouldn’t try to be you because I’m not good enough.” 

Kadar was stabbing vegetables onto skewers while Malik stared at him with his narrow eyes. Those eyes that were trying to dissect him for parts and come up with the heart of the problem. It was fairly obvious, their days of time together were numbered in single digits at this point. Malik was already packing his stuff to leave, talking about his room assignment and how he didn’t want to end up with some idiot straight guy who asked for blowjobs after midnight again. Kadar was here, perpetually not-as-good, trying to figure out how to live without his idiot brother around.

“I’m saying that we are not the same people and you should not be judged by my standards that I set for myself. I cannot change the opinions of others that feel that way but I will not join them,” Malik said. “Your happiness is achieved differently than mine. Your goals in life are not the same as mine. Your worries are not the same as mine. Your strengths are not the same as mine. Your weaknesses are also different—why would I try to compare them?”

 _Why would you want me to_ , was the question that Malik meant to ask.

“Just don’t disappear this year,” Kadar said instead of trying to answer why it mattered. He didn’t want Malik to be like everyone else. He just wanted to know if he was failing at some invisible standard. “Try to remember us little people that you left behind.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “I will endeavor to do that.”

\--

son-of-no-one: be on the look-out for my face and well-oiled naked torso coming to a magazine near you. (2m ago)

The truth was, Altair was a semi-successful model before he was a failure of an actor. When he was two and a half year’s old, his Grandmother had been sitting for yet another of many, many photo shoots to attach to yet another article about her in some magazine. At two, Altair had already been accustom to the notion of people taking his picture and fussing with his hair and according to his Grandmother, was a grinning angel when a camera appeared. The only thing he hadn’t been able to do was leave his Grandmother long enough for her to get a decent individual photograph.

His natural inclination toward being adored by camera flashes had led to a two year stint of modelling children’s clothing looking dapper in jeans and tiny suits with clip on ties. His Father had disliked the idea because the men with the cameras had a tendency to whiten Altair’s skin and Grandmother had simply refused to allow anyone to photograph him again.

Ezio was getting a TV show, however, and his public image was in the toilet. The people responsible for keeping him well-liked by faceless millions thought he could repair the damage by appealing to good old fashion lust.

That was how Altair had come to be standing around without a shirt getting sprayed with some oily-fake-sweat by a woman with a pen clenched between her teeth. A guy with long-long fingers and a shaved head was worrying over the untamable length of Altair’s hair and frowning at the shaved sides of it. 

There was a make-up person somewhere that had spent an hour on his face, _highlighting_ his natural look. Altair was pretty sure there was nothing natural about his face anymore but he wasn’t going to fight the people who knew what they were doing. His only responsibility was to wear the jeans he was given and to stand in front of the backdrop and do whatever the man with the camera said.

Paul (the photographer) was frowning at his pictures while Altair looked at his phone and the people who existed to make him look good fussed over him. “You are very attractive in person,” Paul said. He looked up at Altair (in living colors, even) and frowned at him. He handed the camera to his assistant and shooed away the workers to squint at Altair. “Smile,” he said.

Altair smiled. (Thought of how he’d learned to smile on command before he figured out how to use a toilet properly and wasn’t sure what to think of it.) His head tipped slightly to the side and that seemed to aggravate Paul even more. Paul was rubbing his cheek with his rough-rounded fingertips. 

“You have fascinating eyes. Your jaw is incredible. They want you shirtless, your chest is good.” The man walked around him rubbing at his cheek. “The line of your spine is attractive and your ass is perfect for these jeans.” He finished his circle and was standing in front of him frowning still. 

Altair didn’t frown at him but let the smile slip down into a flat nothing. He tucked his phone into his back pocket and hooked his left thumb into his front pocket. It had been hours of his life trying to make himself attractive enough to be photographed and it might be even more hours until this little man and his camera managed to get a picture worth keeping. Altair did not want to be here.

“Aha,” Paul said. “I like the look. Just hold onto that look—think about how you’d murder me. It’s territorial and aggressive. I like it.” Then he motioned for his camera and started taking pictures again. Interrupted only by moving Altair’s arms to various poses and once getting a prop for him to sit on. 

It wasn’t hard to maintain a level of hostility for the man and his constant commands and insane demands. Altair was sure the man was going to die from some sort of fit of joy before they took a break for lunch and the female model was finally released from the clutches of the make-up people. 

Her name was Talia and she was wearing a robe to cover up the fact that she was also shirtless. Altair had met her briefly when he showed up (hours later than her, apparently) and she had been finishing her individual shoot and was shuffled back into to have her make-up entirely redone to better compliment him. 

“How’d it go?” Talia asked him. 

“He seemed to like it,” Altair said. He took his phone out of his pocket and shuffled through the messages and replies that he’d gotten. A great lot of congratulations followed his announcement and a few people expressing their deep confusion about why anyone would want to take pictures of him. “How was yours?”

“Pretty normal,” Talia offered. She was sitting in the chair waiting to be called back. “You know Paul is gay.”

“Yeah, couldn’t figure that out just by how he stared at my crotch,” Altair said without looking up from the phone. He scrolled through the various messages from Ezio inviting him to lunch and telling him about how the show as officially going to happen.

Talia sighed, “what’s with the numbers?” She pointed at his left wrist where the tattoo had finally healed enough to lose the red-welted look. 

“Secret code,” Altair said. He dropped his left arm so his wrist was pressed against his thigh and Talia was smart enough to figure out he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. They sat next to one another while avoiding each other and Altair had little problems with glaring into the camera while Talia groped at his naked, oily chest and back.

\--

son-of-no-one: maybe if the entertainment news industry was half as good as fact checking as ass-badger they wouldn’t be reporting bullshit all the time (4h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, even she has not correctly divined the meaning behind your tattoo, cousin.

Shirley-Templar: @EzioAuditore, or she just doesn’t care.

EzioAuditore: @Shirley-Templar, yes the crazy obsessive person who dissects every one of @son-of-no-one’s actions suddenly does not have anything to say.

Son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, shut up, Ezio. 

It was two days before Malik was leaving to go back to college. Kadar was all but attached to his side (almost literally). The brat was literally leaning against his left side with sweat-inducing closeness, reading his laptop screen and making faces at what he found.

“What tattoo?” Kadar asked. “What did they even say about it? What did it mean?” 

Clearly, Kadar, like Ezio and even Desmond, thought that Malik would be able to divine the meaning of a tattoo that he had yet to see the entirety of. And while that was both a compliment and an insult, the greater problem was that Malik did not know what the few random numbers that had been reported to appear on Altair’s wrist meant. The fact that no good pictures existed of it had not stopped the press from speculating on its deeper meaning.

Dates seemed to be the most popular running theme. The ideas ranged from the openly mocking (day he lost his virginity) to the slightly possible (days of personal victory). One or two had caught onto the idea that the first date on Altair’s wrist was the day that he moved to the US and were repeating the story again and again. Ideas that followed along that were the notion that the days following were the days that he became a US citizen and the day that his Grandmother officially adopted him. The source of the information was ‘people close to the family’ (which could clearly mean someone that someone slept with one time). 

“I don’t know,” Malik said. “I don’t have a good enough picture of it to figure it out. Why don’t you look for a good photograph of it and I’ll work on deciphering its hidden meaning?” He had no intention of doing so but Kadar was happy enough to go trawling through the various pictures of Altair on the internet. “You are really looking.”

“Yes I am,” Kadar said. “He’s crying out for your help, Malik. You shouldn’t disappoint him.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  I could not help but notice that you addressed me in recent messages posted to your social media. While I am flattered that you think so highly of my ability to read and deduce information, I feel that you have tasked me with the impossible. I do not have the time to search every photograph of your person for evidence of the numbers you have recently tattooed on your wrist. As I do not have that time, I am unable to figure out their meaning. I would express my regrets on failing you but you still have not remembered how to spell ‘sass’ correctly. 
> 
> -Sass-Badger. 

Well, that was an easy enough fix. Altair extracted himself from the messy bed and left (Ashley? Brittany? Peonia?) sleeping soundly without him. The hotel carpet was still cool from the last time the air conditioning cycle on and the sun was a fuzzy distraction through the hazy curtains. Altair went out to the living section of the hotel room and found his pants from the night before. He tugged them on before he flopped onto the couch and held up his arm. He curled his fingers up into a loose fist and held up his phone to get a decent shot of the numbers. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Ass,  
>  I’ll make you a deal. You stop condescendingly referring to me solely by my last name and call me Altair, if not publically than in our private messages, and I’ll stop calling you ass all the time. You see, my Grandmother always taught me to treat people how they want to be treated. You’re an ass, you’re called an ass.
> 
> To assist you in solving the great mystery of my tattoo, here’s a good view for you. Feel free to use it on your blog.
> 
> Altair.

The photograph was mostly of Altair’s wrist (and the overly lavish hotel room beyond it) with the numbers starting just under the crease of his wrist. They were bold numbers with sharp, clean lines that were slim enough to be easily hidden and yet tall enough to distinguish them easily. 

It was the middle of day, oppressively hot outside in a way that even his shower after he’d gotten home from his run had not been able to overcome, and Kadar was in his own room (for once) sleeping the sleep of a kid who refused to give up naps. Malik was shower-damp, sitting in his computer chair back-hunched-forward, staring at the screen like he could pull the meaning out of the photograph just by concentrating hard enough.

The dates were:  
17 02 1986  
20 10 1990  
08 04 1998

 

The actual days meant nothing to him. The years were sporadically spread out. He knew only that the crap about moving to the US and becoming a citizen was so unlikely it was ridiculous. What little he knew about Altair’s feelings about being a citizen could be summed up in the fact that he spent months abroad. However, 1986 was easily recognizable as the year Altair was born (albeit in January, not February)—

“Oh,” Malik said when the idea occurred to him. He sat back away from the computer and rubbed the dampness on the back of his neck. He huffed a sigh out through his nose and opened a new tab on his browser. It took half-a-minute to look up Phyllis DeCort and discover that she had died on the eighth of April in 1998. The other dates could easily enough be deduced from then, Altair’s Mother died in February the year he was born and his Dad had died when he was four. “Well, fuck.”

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Either you have taken your estrangement from our family to such an extreme that you have purposefully turned your back on the baby or you are being an ass.
> 
> Being an ass is not like you, Desmond.
> 
> It’s an unattractive quality that seems to run in our blood. One can only assume our Grandfather’s genetics are so strong they’ve survived all attempts to obliterate them.
> 
> In other words, Desmond.
> 
> The baby is drowning. Possibly in alcohol.
> 
> This from the man who actually said to Altair’s face that he was gay?
> 
> I’m the asshole because I’m trying to give him space to work through something, but you’re not for insulting his sexuality.
> 
> Which, by the way, is a well-known sore subject.
> 
> Let’s also pretend for a minute that Altair never had a chance to mourn his losses.
> 
> Let’s pretend he deserves that chance.
> 
> While we’re at it, let’s pretend that even if I could teleport there that he’s ignoring me.
> 
> I can’t help him if he won’t talk to me. I can’t make him talk to me. Trying to make him talk to me would make it worse.
> 
> What the fuck should I do, Desmond?
> 
> Send him home.
> 
> I’ve tried.
> 
> Not to me. Send him home.

The conversation was haunting him. Desmond couldn’t shake off the wrongness of it. He’d tried to sleep it off, and when that failed he’d been driven out into the intolerable sunshine of the late days of summer. He picked up some coffee from the usual coffee shop and found that Lucy had the day off. He hadn’t intended to walk a (quite a) few miles to her apartment but he found himself standing outside of her place with sweat making his shirt stick to his body and the unpleasant smell of armpits clinging to him. 

Lucy was walking back from the apartment pool with a towel over her shoulder and two hands plucking at the tangled strings on her hip. “Desmond?” she said. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were still wet from the pool (or sweat) and her shoulders were pinked from the sun. He had never seen so much of her body on display. They were friends (not romantic ones) so it was rude of him to stare openly at her porcelain pale skin and the ripple of muscle in her stomach that he just would not have expected. More impressively than that was the Air Force insignia tattooed just to the side of her hip-bone. Just barely visible above the top of her bikini bottom. Lucy snapped her fingers in his face with a smile that was far-too-pleased. The sun had pinked a line across her nose and under her eyes. “I’m sure you did not walk a dozen miles to gawk at me in my bathing suit,” she said.

Well, someone should because it was worth the effort. Desmond motioned back toward the route he’d taken and said, “I was walking.”

Lucy sighed at him like he was hopeless. “Family?”

Desmond nodded. 

Lucy grabbed him by the elbow and pulled him toward her apartment. “Come on, I’ll make you something to eat and you can tell me all about what stupid thing they’ve done now.” She took him to her tiny apartment and left him sitting in the kitchen while she went to rinse her hair and put on clothes. When she reappeared she was wearing a pair of shorts and a tank top, her hair was wet but twisted up in a bun. “I’ve got grilled cheese,” she said. “Tell me your troubles.”

“Altair is sad,” Desmond said.

“That doesn’t seem like an unusual thing for him,” Lucy said. She was gathering her bread and butter.

“It’s not. See, he thinks that he’ll be happy if he can get away but he can’t get away from anything. This problem is complicated by the fact that once he gets away, he gets lonely and wants to go home but he feels like he can’t or shouldn’t. I don’t know—he’s stupid and he always has been.”

Lucy dropped her burdens on the table and sat on the seat across from him. “Did you see his jeans ad?” She reached across the rickety little square table and tugged one of the magazines out from under the salt-and-pepper shakers and flipped it open to the picture of Altair with one arm behind his back and one thumb in his front pocket. The livid-hateful-arrogance on his face was an uncomfortable realization of every one of Ezio’s (somewhat exaggerated) worries.

Desmond sighed. “Yeah. That. But he doesn’t want to talk to me. So what can I do?”

 _Drowning_ , that was what Ezio said about Altair. The baby was _drowning_.

“Nothing,” Lucy said. “I mean, you could go out there and collect him and bring him back here. He didn't look like that,” she nodded at the photograph, “when he was out here with you. But he’s twenty one and he should be old enough to take care of himself.”

“Ha,” Desmond said. He rubbed his face and flipped the magazine shut. “Altair’s been taking care of himself since he was fifteen. His problem is nobody wants to take care of him. He’s an obligation and he knows it.”

“Is that what he is? Just one of your obligations?” Lucy finished buttering the bread and stood up to get her frying pan out of the cabinet by the stove. “Because you don’t treat him like an obligation.”

“He’s my cousin,” Desmond said. The one he promised his dying Grandmother he’d shelter from the storm. The one that he’d left with Mama Maria when he couldn’t take spending another fucking second living in the Auditore’s expansive mansion half-filled with people who hated him. The one that followed him a few months later, saying nothing except that he was tired of being told what to do. “I don’t know what to do,” Desmond said at last. Then he looked over at her as she leaned back against the counter by the pan that was heating on the stove. Her arms were back so her hands were on the counter behind her and the tips of the tattoo was visible over the low band of her shorts. “You were in the Air Force?”

“Yup,” Lucy said. “Did it for the school money. Now I’m a barista. Funny how the world works. Look, you have to do what you think is best for you and for him. Can you help him right now?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond said. Altair’s moodiness had a wide range but he almost always reached a point of exhaustion with one emotion and moved onto another. “I told Ezio to send him home. So I guess we’ll find out when he gets there.”

“Where is home for Little Tommy?” Lucy asked.

“Don’t call him that. He hates being called that,” Desmond said. “Grandma’s house is home. He still has a bedroom there. I don’t like not knowing what to do.”

Lucy shrugged. “Nobody does. It’ll be fine. Now, what should I feel about the fact that you walked literally like twelve and a half miles just to see me and talk about this. Something you need to tell me Desmond?”

Desmond grinned. “I need a car?”

She cuffed her hand on the side of his head and laughed at him. “Yes you do.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Altair,  
>  As requested I have used your first name. Please try to remember where to apply the s to my name when you use it. 
> 
> I’m not sure if you want me to post the secret meaning behind your tattoo publicly. I’m not sure what you hope to achieve by doing so. These are the dates that your family died that you have permanently inked onto your body. I’m not sure if you would be happier enlightening the general populace or if you want to keep this memorial to them private. 
> 
> Sass-Badger.

Ezio had dragged him out in public to have lunch (so he said) but that largely seemed like a thin excuse to be seen and photographed by anyone. They sat outside under an umbrella sipping drinks through straws while Ezio told an animated story about this woman that he’d danced with the night before. 

“Did you sleep with her?” Altair asked. He pulled at the leather band he’d put on over his left wrist because the bracelet was still stiff enough to dig into his skin whenever he moved his hand. “I’m just asking because I need to know if I should pay attention to the whole conversation or not.” He did not look at Ezio and didn’t have to know that he was getting glared at. 

“You are an ass,” Ezio said. In Italian, under his breath, with a venomous lilt. 

Altair looked up at him. Claudia, Ezio and Federico had spent half of Altair’s childhood speaking in Italian to talk about him in front of him so he wouldn’t know what they were saying. “I’m an ass?” Altair repeated (in Italian). “Why am I an ass because I’m not interested in hearing another story of your conquest of a fainting female? I’ve heard that talking about your sexual partners is something only dick-faces do.”

Ezio was frowning at him so hard it mutated his preternaturally good looks into something ugly. Last night’s stubble was still stuck on his face and a few messy strands of his hair had fallen free from the hairband that held it back. He looked exactly like a guy who had gotten laid last night and sweet-talked his way out of an ugly scene. “Do you plan on continuing to pout or should I expect that you’ll eventually return to your normal operating parameters?”

There might have been an answer to that question but Altair just rolled his eyes and looked down at his phone. He reread the message from Sass-Badger and thumb-typed a reply. Then he set the phone down. “What do you want from me?”

“A smile, perhaps,” Ezio said.

Altair smiled.

Ezio sighed once more. “After we do the interview next week, you need to go away. I am tired of your face now.” But he said it so smoothly and with such an innocent smile that anyone who was listening in might have thought they were talking about fond memories.

“As I recall, you were the one that dragged me into this bullshit,” Altair said.

“As I recall, you used to have a sense of humor,” Ezio said.

“Perhaps you should go back to telling your story about the woman,” Altair said, “it makes better pictures than this.” He waved his finger back and forth between them. “I’ll even pretend to listen intently.” Then he settled in his chair comfortably and put on his best ‘interested-and-amused’ face.

Ezio’s breath was wet hiss between his bare teeth visible when he smiled his public-relations smile and started telling his story again.

\--

> ### You see but you do not observe…
> 
> Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s issued something like a challenge that I could figure out the meaning of his tattoo while national and international news programs (I use this term lightly) could not manage the task. 
> 
> The answer is simple. The three dates listed on Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s wrist are the dates that his closest family died. The order goes: Mother, Father, Grandmother. While this memorandum is perhaps not everyone’s version of the ‘best’ way to remember one’s loved ones, please refrain from criticizing or offering hate. Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad has the right to mourn however he chooses. 

Malik had put up the post literal minutes before he had to leave to head to the bus station. The better part of a day spent on a bus with nothing better to do than think and attempt reading had left him with somber thoughts about his own Father.

Kadar was an infant when their Father died but Malik had been four and there were persistent hazy memories of their father stuck in Malik’s head. He looked quite a bit like Kadar (was starting to look) but heavier and bigger. Malik had been small then, an easy fit to nestle close to his father’s chest and listen to him tell stories of the world they’d left behind when they moved here from Syria. 

Malik remembered his Father holding Kadar when he was still small enough to fit in the crook of a single arm. He remembered how huge his Father seemed and how small Kadar was. Their Mother a presence to the side (in all colors, as vibrant in his memory as she was in real life) smiling with an edge of the deepest kind of sadness watching her husband spend those precious moments with their child. 

Malik remembered his father praying. He remembered his Father’s voice singing. He remembered the smell of his clothes and the comforting scratch of his beard when they hugged. These were the happy memories that he kept, the ones that he’d memorized over the years and recalled often to keep from losing to the myriad of other things that were of limited significance in comparison. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> How’s school?
> 
> Do you actually care or is this going to segue into you asking about the comments on the post?
> 
> Well I’m curious if you’ve got a better roommate, if you’ve had sex with Leonardo already and yeah I’m interested in your reaction to the comments
> 
> My roommate seems rational and says he just wants to study and avoid bullshit.
> 
> Leonardo is not available for sex presently as he apparently decided to take a semester off to work on his art.
> 
> I thought he was an engineer?
> 
> He is an actual genius. He does what he wants.
> 
> I have no opinion good or bad about the impromptu sharing of grief stories on my post. I only get involved if there’s fights.
> 
> So who are you going to sleep with?
> 
> You need to get a girlfriend.
> 
> Yes that worked out so well last time
> 
> Look up porn then. My sex life shouldn’t be that interesting to you.
> 
> I’d ask about your love life but that would imply you were capable of forming attachments to other people for reasons other than sex
> 
> Touché.
> 
> I have to do my summer reading now. Ugh.

One day, Kadar was going to stop putting off his summer reading until the very last minute. Until such a time as that happened, he was just going to keep doing it the last week before school started. He was absolutely going to start reading too, just as soon as he finished wheeling Malik’s awesome computer chair into his own room.

\--

son-of-no-one: look, someone that has logic and the ability to read numbers in a sequence. Sass-Badger has figured it out. (1d ago)

Son-of-no-one: but for the record, as I had no control over moving to the US or becoming a citizen the idea that I’d ink those dates on my arm for all time is stupid (1d ago)

Son-of-no-one: I lost my virginity when I was eighteen, by the way not 1 month, 4 years or 12 years old. Perverts. (1d ago)

The most perplexing thing about the tweets was that Ezio had not sent him any alerts about the messages and so they had sat for an entire day to be digested by the public. Desmond was behind on keeping up with Sass-Badger as well but a brief look through her journal proved that whatever had set Altair off had nothing to do with her. 

In fact, Ezio had sent him nothing but Claudia had sent him a picture of Ezio with an indescribable look of anger, hurt and frustration on his face that Desmond couldn’t figure out what he was meant to make of it. The caption that came with the photograph was simply: _back from lunch with the baby_. That had been a few days ago.

So now Desmond was hiding in the bathroom halfway through his shift at the bar trying to figure out if he should fly out to California to get between the two biggest egos their family had to offer. He wasn’t sure if he would help-or-hinder the natural progression of Altair’s dark moods. There hadn’t been one as bad as this since he really had been a kid. In absence of any better idea, he tucked his phone back in his pocket and went back to work before they came looking for him.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Please understand that what I’m about to ask you has nothing to do with the blog and anything you say to me on the subject would never see the morally ambiguous light of an internet day. And, of course, you are more than welcome to tell me to fuck off and I not bother you with such questions again. In light of your most recent texts, the now infamous-fuck-off-photo shoot and lack of new humorous videos, I find myself worried. I do not know what has happened, I do not know how serious it is or if it will resolve itself quickly or not. I cannot say that everything will be good again. I can only offer you the (admittedly ultimately worthless) knowledge that you have worried me. 
> 
> Unless you’re pouting because of losing a contest to a girl. Then consider all this an embarrassing footnote to our relationship.
> 
> -Sass Badger.

The shudder click of a camera snapped Altair out of the hazy gray-space that accompanied opening any E-mail from Sass-Badger (most of which involved a great deal more sarcasm). He looked up from where he’d been resting in the middle of a long run to find a short man with a large camera looking absolutely unrepentant about taking his picture. 

“I’ve got to eat,” the man said.

Altair did not answer him but stare him down until he retreated far enough away he would have to make better use of the lens on his camera. He stared at him as the man raised the camera to snap his photograph again and didn’t even smile as he raised his middle finger up to the man. He looked back at his phone and read the e-mail again while he tried to work out what to answer (if anything. It wasn’t like he owed Sass-Badger of all people an explanation). He picked himself up and took off jogging again, back toward the hotel he was staying in for his last week stuck in this hell-hole.

\--

>   
> **Interviewer: So, you’ve gotten a lot of press recently for that photo shoot you did. I’ve seen a few reoccurring words being thrown around, aggressive? Dismissive? I think my favorite description of your expression in those pictures was something like ‘ _the look of tiger who has just tasted the flesh of a hated enemy and wants to finish the meal_ ’. What was going through your head during the shoot?**
> 
> Altair: I was hungry. 
> 
> **Interviewer: And you did the shoot with Talia how was she?**
> 
> Altair: Probably hungry too. 
> 
> **Interviewer: So, a lot of talk has been going around about how you’ve kind of re-emerged in the media after being kind of unheard of for a while. And of course, your cousin, Ezio Auditore is set to start filming his reality show this fall. Has your decision to get back into the public eye related to that?**
> 
> Altair: I don’t think I was ever out of the public’s eye. I don’t feel like I was. I feel like I’ve been a speck of dust in the public’s eye my whole life.
> 
> **Interviewer: Well, for quite a while it felt as if we were able to watch you grow up if you will. You were the face of several popular children’s clothing lines when you were young, you were a popular addition to several society events and you were in Family Blends for years.**
> 
> Altair: That wasn’t a question.
> 
> **Interviewer: You’ve been keeping a video blog to document your goal to become more fit—how has that been?**
> 
> Altair: Fine. I’m getting paid to take my shirt off now so I guess it’s working out. 
> 
> **Interviewer: So are you going to be on your cousin’s reality show?**
> 
> Altair: If I’m around.
> 
> **Interviewer: We’ve also heard rumors that his sister Claudia will be on the show. His brother Federico and his wife Cristina are also said to make appearances. What about the estranged cousin?**
> 
> Altair: I could define estranged for you. He won’t be on the TV show because he doesn’t want his life made available for public consumption. But you know, he looks just like Ezio and me.
> 
> **Interviewer: Tell us about Sass-Badger, what is the relationship there. It’s always difficult to get a good grasp of tone from reading a series of tweets or a blog post. Do you know this person in your real life? How do you feel about her and if you could find out who she was, would you and would you confront her about it?**
> 
> Altair: Sass-Badger also won’t be on my cousin’s show. Every single minute of our relationship is on her website or in my media pages. There is literally nothing to tell that isn’t already available.
> 
> **Interviewer: But isn’t it strange to have a stranger telling you what you’ve been doing wrong? What do you think motivates her? Do you ever think, this person must be one of those crazy fans?**
> 
> Altair: No.
> 
> **Interviewer: No what?**
> 
> Altair: No I don’t think about what motivates her. No I don’t think she’s crazy. No, it isn’t strange to have a stranger telling me what I’ve done wrong. No, I don’t know her in real life. No, I’m not discussing this with you. Ask questions I’ll answer or I’m leaving.

It probably should have occurred to Malik long before that moment that eventually he was going to garner enough fame to warrant the attention of people with low morals and a good grasp of dramatic waste. The moment Altair located and decided to draw attention to his blog should have been his last moment on the internet. The alternative was having the entire world (those that cared, which was far more than Malik wanted to consider) discover who he was, why he was doing this and then proceed to judge him for it. 

Malik wasn’t ashamed of himself (much, anymore) but the idea of every single person having access to any level of personal information about him was so utterly frightening that it was beyond comprehension. He had already attracted enough hatred just from pointing out the flaws that Altair had (and everyone knew about) he could not imagine the level of hatred that he could get by being forcibly foisted into the public eye.

He dug his phone out from under the blankets on his bed and went out of the room because Adam (his new roommate who was far better than the last) was trying to study. He went down the hall toward the stairwell while looking for his brother’s number. High school hadn’t started yet (but soon) so Kadar most likely wasn’t doing anything he couldn’t interrupt. Malik was hyperventilating in the stairwell when Kadar finally answered the phone.

“What?” his brother demanded, “I was doing my reading.”

“What if someone finds out who I am? I mean, it’s not that hard to get into a database of information is it? People do that kind of crap for a hobby, right? I mean, sure _he_ could probably do it because he’s rich and has an army of people under his command but anyone could figure me out.”

Kadar’s answer was a long pause of silence, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Did someone ask who you were?”

“People always ask who I am. It’s why I’ve got a FAQs now. That’s not the point. I mean find out who I _really_ am, Kadar. I would be a sideshow attraction! They would eat me. They would do it for fun.”

“Ok,” Kadar said slowly. “Well. I—have no idea what you can do about that. Because there’s nothing you can do. I’m just assuming you didn’t put your real name on any of your stuff for the blog that’s the best you can do. If you had Altair’s resources you could probably—”

“Stop. Shut up,” Malik said.

“Why, I was helping!”

“ _He_ could keep them away from me,” Malik repeated.

“That’s not what I said.”

“But he could.”

“If you told me that he could hire someone to kill your high school chemistry teacher and not get caught, I’d believe you. The man has more money than any single person should have, an extended family with ties to the mob—”

“That has never been proven.”

“—and is you know, on TV. He can do whatever he wants. That doesn’t mean he’ll help you.”

Malik considered that objection. “He owes me a favor.” Perhaps not one the size of the one that Malik was going to ask in return but sizeable enough that Malik wasn’t going to feel like an ass asking it.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m calling in my favor. I don’t want people to know who I am. If the people who spend all their time going after you coming looking for me it won’t be that hard to find out who I am. If you can help in anyway, I’d appreciate it.
> 
> Sass-Badger.

Altair was checking out of his hotel when he got the message and expecting something perhaps like the last one had checked it (rudely) while the clerk worked on totaling his final bill. It was the tedious part of the whole operation that he usually left for whoever cleaned up his messes to do. There was always someone that came after him and fixed the things that he didn’t do right. 

“Sir?” the clerk said. Because the smart ones didn’t try to pronounce his last name and none of them would dare call him by his first. She was waiting for him to look at her and he put his finger up to shush her. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Hypothetically,” he said looking up from the phone, “if you slept with a guy but he turned out to be a jerk that either left the next morning without saying anything or called you by some other woman’s name on a scale of one to an ongoing attack on his character how angry would you be?”

The poor clerk (Mary or so her nameplate led him to believe) smiled at him with a confusing look of sympathy and offense on her face. “I think I’d be angry but I wouldn’t be surprised?”

“Why start a blog to attack me if you don’t want to be famous?” Altair asked. Going by the blank look of confusion on her face, she either had no idea who he was or didn’t have any idea why someone wouldn’t want to be famous. “Never mind. Finish whatever you were saying.” He even did a decent job of pretending to care about what she was saying. 

He took a detour on his way to the airport, one that necessitated a change in his flight schedule entirely, and delivered him back to the Auditore family mansion. Mama Maria was out in her garden tending her flowers and watching the birds that were drawn there by the many splendid colors and available food and water. There was a pile of feathers at her side as she knelt in the dirt with that watery out-of-focus look on her face. 

“Altair,” she said when he stopped in front of her, “Ezio said you were going back to New York today.”

“Yeah, I am,” he said. There he was, some sticky-fingered toddler leaving stains on her nice-white-couches. “I need your help with something. But I need it to stay between us.” 

Mama Maria was the sort of woman that would kill a man on behalf of her children, the sort of woman that had stood defiant against the expectations heaped on her life and survived not only the drama of marrying into the family she had but the death of one of her children. She was made of iron and it was never so obvious as when she got to her feet and assessed his face for any sign of a lie. “I will do whatever I can,” she said when she found him to be sincere.

“Nobody goes after Sass-Badger,” he said. “Nobody finds out who she is, nobody even comes close to it. Tell me how.”

Mama Maria did not waste time feigning confusion but took his hand and took him toward the house and straight to the room affectionately referred to as the ‘war room’ where all naughty children feared to go and every major decision about the public presentation of the Auditore family was made. The doors were thick and the walls were sound-proofed and there was nothing but the biggest and ugliest of secrets hidden inside.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’ve written six replies to your last two messages and sent none of them. Rest assured that I am well. If you were to ask any of my cousins they would tell you I am only living up to my name. The baby pouts and nobody is surprised. Part of it is an act, a reverse on playing the clown. All of it will pass. Do not waste your worry on me (more than you already do).
> 
> As to your request that I conceal your identity, I feel that I am inadequate for such a task. I have sought the assistance of someone that I can assure you would rather cut out her own eye than betray someone’s trust. She has set many wheels into motion that will drive the attention away from you back to people that deserve and want it. There are lawyers setting to work to protect you from any attempts to force you to reveal information about yourself that you do not want to give. I will send you the information for a lawyer that will be specifically for you, in case you ever want to upgrade to a better website or anything else that puts you at risk. Whether or not you contact him is your decision. 
> 
> Also, you do not have to answer this question but it’s been stuck in my head for a while now and since we’re sending one another thoughtful e-mails I thought I’d ask. Have we had sex?
> 
> -Altair

Malik checked his messages late because he’d met a guy in the library with a cute face and nice arms and they had talked their way into having sex. He was expecting a new message from one of his professors (clarifying a stupid assignment) but upon finding nothing in his official e-mails moved onto his internet aliases. Then he found himself sitting on his bed staring at his phone trying to work out the right answer to the question. (Maybe working out how big a liar Altair was and who he was trying to convince with that nonsense answer about how he was doing.) 

The truth, as simple as it was, couldn’t possibly lead Altair any closer to finding him than he already was. The man had set (what amounted to) attack dogs on protecting him from the unwanted attention of the media. Answering his question seemed small in comparison. But Malik didn’t like the feeling that he had to reciprocate the kindness so he mulled over it.

For a few hours when he should have been sleeping.

For a few hours in the morning when he should have been paying attention in class. For a while when he barely managed to eat his lunch. And then, in the afternoon, having reached no precise conclusion, he sent a small note back that said:

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Thank you. Yes.
> 
> You’re a terrible liar. Whatever it is that’s wrong, I hope it gets better for you.

Altair slept in the cab that took him from the airport to the DeCort family home. Its massive shadow in the low glow of fading evening light made it seem even more offensively extravagant. He took his bags from the cabbie and gave him a ridiculously good tip. Mrs. Finch was there (late for her) with her arms out and her smile all pinked at the edges of her eyes.

“You stupid, stupid boy,” she said to him with tears in her voice. She wrapped her arms around him and pressed her cheek against his rough one. He was rigid in her grasp but she held onto him anyway and only relented when he straightened out of her reach. “Just a brief stop before you’re on your way again. I opened the windows in your room.”

“Thank you,” Altair said. 

“Too bad you weren’t here yesterday. You could have told that bastard to get lost yourself. I won’t trouble you with it tonight but, just wait until tomorrow when you’ve had more rest. We have to do something to amend the rules about who is allowed to waltz in here making demands.”

Altair nodded along. He didn’t even care. He was tired and lonely and wanted to find his bed and listen to the old house groaning itself to sleep. “Sure thing, Mrs. Finch.”

“Look at you,” she said when they reached the first landing on the stairs. “You look like death.” Then she resumed walking and he resumed plodding along after her the same as they had done since as long as he could remember. “But you have to do something about William. If he comes here again I will not be responsible for what I do to him.”

“Tomorrow,” he said. 

“Tomorrow,” she agreed as she swept open the door to his room. “I stocked your bathroom too. Everything you should need is in there. When you wake up, just find your way to the kitchen and I’ll make us breakfast.” Then she hugged him again and left him.

Altair didn’t even get his shoes all the way off before he was asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks to plunkyplum on tumblr for the suggestion for the tattoo.

son-of-no-one: got lost on my way to the kitchen. #ineedamap (10m ago)

Altair had woken up before the sun (an unfortunate consequence of falling asleep at an indecent hour) and took a bath. The tub had been replaced when he seven and the only thing he’d asked for that year (birthday and Christmas) was a bigger bathtub. It was a fantastic deep soak tub aged by the many years he had spent laying in it pretending to be a submarine (or a mermaid, a shark, an alligator or some other water-based-fantasy). As an adult he felt dull, lying in hot water with swirly little white soap circles and steam making his face sweat. He was slouching low enough that the water covered his face up to his nose and he could blow bubbles.

There were a whole lot of fantasies in his adult life. He didn’t create a story to keep himself busy while he marinated in hot water but lay there lifelessly contemplating how pink his skin turned and how he hadn’t managed a truly decent tan this year. After a while, when the water started to cool, he looked at the tattoo on his wrist and felt a slight twinge of shame. 

(Oh, Grandmother would have slapped him on the head and called him a morose fool keeping track of unfortunate things. She had no patience for dwelling.)

By the time he’d gotten out of bed, found clothes to wear and started on his way back to the kitchen, he was starving-hungry. There were enough rooms, hallways and doors in this house to get lost in for days but Altair had always managed to find his way to the kitchen without trouble before. They had a dining room but absent a party or a large family dinner, food had always been served in the corner table of the kitchen. The industrial-grade-steel appliances gleaming menacingly from across the room while Mrs-and-Mr. Finch sat with them and shared stories of their day. 

So Altair had no idea how he found himself standing in front of his Grandmother’s old bedroom. He could not work out how he’d managed to get his hand on the doorknob before his brain caught up with his body and he spent a moment in awkward half-intent. He hadn’t been into the room since his Grandmother died and the somber men came to take her away. He had been in the room when she died, curled up on her bed listening to the hiss of oxygen and the ragged-drag of her stilted breath. His hand clenched in hers as her skin went dreadfully cold. There had been no high-wailing warning of the inevitable but a tired-looking family doctor that had been ever-faithful to his Grandmother who rose from the heavy chair by the bed and touched her face and pulled the stethoscope off his neck to check for a heartbeat and finding none, took note of the time on his watch. His eyes had been a dull-brown and his face a pearly-pink as he looked at Altair but he hadn’t had the heart (or resolve) to say the blunt truth out loud. No, he’d gone to get someone with more guts to extract Altair from his Grandmother’s side.

Altair remembered Desmond with tears in his voice pulling at his chest saying, “come on, Altair. Come on.” But it had been Uncle Giovanni that came and picked him up—even as big as Altair had been at twelve) and took him out of the room in the end. 

No, he’d never gone back in there. There was no reason to do it now. He turned himself back toward the kitchen. Mrs. Finch was inevitable awake-and-active in the kitchen that should have languished for want of people to feed and yet persisted in its timeless perfection.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Tag, you’re it.
> 
> You’re such an ass sometimes.
> 
> I want to strangle the little bastard at the same time I want to shake sense into him.
> 
> Fix him, Desmond.
> 
> Go worry about making the public love you. I’ve got this

Desmond had managed a four hour nap between the end of his shift at the bar and showing up at the coffee shop to get a drink for the road. Lucy was there working both the register and the coffee machines. Her smile was strained-at-best but she seemed pleased to see him. Even if she nodded at the strap of the bag around his chest with a curious raised eyebrow. 

“Taking a trip,” he explained (without explaining anything). “I’ll be gone a few days. Where’s your help?”

“Sick. Her replacement is on her way but you know, who wants to hurry to work? I’m fine for now and Mary is in the back if I need her. Where are you going? How are you getting there?” She moved from the register to the coffee machines while she spoke and he followed her. She plucked a cup from the stack and pulled her marker out of her apron.

“Family home,” Desmond said. His family home being a magnificent mansion built in the days where magnificent wealth demanded pretentious displays. Grandmother’s house was a sprawling estate teeming with obscene opulence. Occupied (currently) by the two people who had lived there nearly the whole of their lives and Altair. He rubbed the back of his neck and tried not to look like he was so used to being surrounded by excessive money. “I have Altair’s car.”

“Why haven’t you been driving it?” Lucy asked. “Why have I been driving you everywhere? I picked you up like six times! You could have just driven your own car.”

“It’s not mine. It’s Altair’s. I gave you gas money for picking me up.” He took his cup when she handed it to him and turned it around to look at the spray of little hearts that came up from the bottom. Instead of his name it said ‘jerk’ and when he looked at Lucy she was all smiles. “Keep this up,” he said raising the cup toward her, “and I’ll never take you out to see the family home.”

“Oh no, anything but not going to see your mansion!” She balled up a napkin and threw it at him. “Have fun, Desmond. Think of me while you’re off being fabulous with your cousin.”

“Right,” he said. Because that’s what he was going to do.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I got a B! I got a B on this paper.
> 
> Thanks for the heads up about the apocalypse
> 
> Do I have enough time to build a shelter or should I hide under the table and hope for the best?
> 
> B-!
> 
> It’s amazing how I know you’re shouting even through texts
> 
> Punctuation is miraculous like that.
> 
> I have to stop having sex with idiots. I’m damaging my brain.
> 
> …
> 
> I can’t tell if you mean that like you think stupidity is contagious
> 
> Or if you’re doing some kinky sex thing that’s killing brain cells
> 
> They keep showing up! Looking attractive!
> 
> I really did not expect your fatal weakness to be your penis
> 
> You didn’t expect it? You should be me. The guy I slept with instead of writing this paper properly thought I was from India!
> 
> To have your problems, Malik
> 
> Maybe try not sleeping with attractive idiots?
> 
> I may or may not be flirting with one right now.
> 
> I’m calling Leonardo and telling him your GPA needs him
> 
> Stay a virgin, Kadar. Your GPA won’t survive if you don’t.
> 
> Hahaha, let’s see how many jobs you get with a degree in dick sucking, Malik.
> 
> Your Mother is ashamed of you.
> 
> Couldn’t hear you over the cock-breath.
> 
> I’m going to study now. I hate you.
> 
> Call me any time you need cock-blocked.

Kadar missed most of his English class because of Malik’s sudden interruptive need to talk. (Not that Kadar would have been paying attention even if he weren’t being burdened with too much information about his brother’s sex life.) Whatever it was he missed had everyone else grumbling unhappily about the homework that had been assigned. Kadar scribbled down the assignment off the board and made a mental note to check in with Sam (who took great notes) about what he had not heard. Then he headed for the cafeteria because the greasy-pizza had quickly become a necessity in his life.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Me [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Pancakes make everything better. Most especially when they are made in the same of hippos by the best breakfast cook in the world.

Sass-Badger most likely did not care what he was eating for breakfast. Neither would the majority of the internet but Sass-Badger probably wouldn’t still be sending him random comments for six days after he put up a picture of the fat little hippo pancakes he was eating. The syrup was delicious and hot and the butter was melting in creamy little puddles dimpled into the hippo bellies. 

Mrs. Finch sat next to him with her steaming cup of coffee and set a jug of water in front of him with a pronounced nod toward it to remind him that water-was-best when ingested. She was older now than he could have imagined her being when he was only twelve. (Older now than he thought she was when he was twelve.) The age showed in the delicate way she sat and the lines on her face but most in the strained softness of her smile. 

“What were you saying last night?” He asked. Since he was sitting in her kitchen (shoeless) wearing semi-dirty clothes and pretending to be an adult. This was _technically_ his house and she was _technically_ his employee (removed several times from his direct supervision). It had to make sense that he should know what happened here. “Something about William?”

Her smile sloped down so hard it left a bad taste in Altair’s mouth just for seeing it. “He comes here. He was here yesterday asking about when Desmond visits and demanding to stay overnight. I told him that he had to go, that nobody was allowed to stay and he says to me—just as loud as you please—that _you_ stay here. Of course you can stay here. I told him that. I told him that you own this house. It’s yours to do whatever you want with. Do you know what he said to me?”

“Something stupid,” Altair said with his mouthful of pancakes. He couldn’t remember William with any clarity. A few hazy memories of the man from his distant childhood on holidays and during parties. The man hiding outside with cigarettes or in a dark corner glowering at the lights and the chatter. 

“He said that he’d just ask you about it then. He said that he has the right to see his son!”

Altair stuck another bit of pancake in his mouth and watched as Mrs. Finch’s aggravation drove her back to her feet. Her face was all spotty with irritation as she fetched glass and brought it back. It banged hollowly against the table. “I don’t want water,” he said quietly. 

“That bastard gave up the right to see his son a long time ago. Can you imagine him coming around here as if he were _welcome_. If it were up to me, I would have scratched him right off the list in the beginning. Yes, I would have but I wasn’t the ranking authority at the time—what with you being too young to decide for yourself and your Aunt Maria.” The sound Mrs. Finch was guttural, coming up from somewhere in her throat with universal disgust for the very name. “All I know is he didn’t know about Desmond visiting here in the summer before and now he does. It wouldn’t surprise me if it was one of those Auditore boys. The apple does not fall far from the tree.”

“Mama Maria wouldn’t let them tell William where Desmond was,” Altair took the full glass of water away before Mrs. Finch could throw it at him.

She responded to his words and actions by slapping the jug of water on the table followed by her hand. “Wouldn’t let them?” she said so loudly that one might have thought it was a shout. “What has she ever done to stop them? When did she ever try to protect Desmond from their accusations? Do not defend her to me, Altair. I have nothing nice to say about a woman that does not protect a child. It…I believe there is good in everyone.” Mrs. Finch couldn’t sit but started grabbing the assortment of syrup and butter dishes and rearranging them around his plate.

“Except William,” Altair said. He pulled his plate away from her before she could decide to rearrange his food away from him. 

“What kind of man treats their son like that?” she demanded. The butter dish did not deserve the sort of treatment it was receiving. “I stood right there in that doorway and listened to him yell in that little boy’s face. Can you imagine that? A full-grown man saying the sort of things he said to a _child_? Calling him worthless! Telling him he was only good for money! Did that matter to _Mama Maria_? No. She stood right here, right in this kitchen, and said that she was not going to intervene. She said her husband had every right to call Desmond—what did Giovanni say?”

Altair wanted to tell her to stop. That part of him that had walked out on the Auditores to follow after Desmond’s miserable retreat across the country to New York wanted to slap both hands over her mouth to keep the awful secret from spilling out any farther. That loyal part of his body that was tightening up so that his gut felt like a rock of dread and his hands were loose around his silverware. But he couldn’t move.

“He said a son should be loyal to his Father! He said that Desmond wasn’t _abused_ , that William never _laid a hand on him_. Well he didn’t have to did he? And that’s what your _Mama Maria_ took Desmond home to. Straight into a house full of people who thought he’d turned your Grandmother against the family over nothing but spite. She didn’t disinherit everyone without reason!”

Altair had stopped hearing anything after the words, ‘abused’ and the rest made a hazy sort of sense in relation to it. He slapped the silverware on the tabletop and stood up so suddenly and forcefully that the chair fell backward behind him. “He did _what_?” Altair shouted at her.

The dawning realization on Mrs. Finch’s face was awful to watch. “Oh,” she said like a wheeze. There were tears in her eyes that had been rage only a moment ago and now was horrified realization. “Altair.”

“What did he do to Desmond?” Altair said. “What did they do?”

But Mrs. Finch wasn’t going to say another word. She had both hands out like she could gather him up and squeeze the ideas back out of his head. “Altair, I shouldn’t have—please don’t—”

He stepped backward away from her, almost tripped over the chair and righted himself in time. “Grandma disinherited everyone?” he said loudly. “They told me that she didn’t want her empire stripped for parts! They told me that she gave me everything because I was the one that she _raised_. Mama Maria told me that I got the money and the house and everything because Grandmother loved me like _her son_!” The lie seemed unlikely now. Anger surged up with memories of his Grandmother’s unenviable, cold wrath. “Why?”

Defeat made Mrs. Finch’s shoulders slump. 

“Why?” Altair said again. His voice was empty of everything.

Mrs. Finch bit her lips and then cleared her throat. “Your Grandmother said that she would not give a dime to small-minded, money-hungry fools. She disinherited everyone except for you because she believed Desmond and they didn’t.”

“William _hurt_ Desmond?” Altair asked. Whatever he thought the feud about, he thought it was a matter of pride. He thought Federico was offended by Desmond’s dismissal of their way of life. He had known (since he was eleven) that Desmond had left William but he’d never-ever wondered why. He had known as long as he’d known anything that William was unwelcome wherever Desmond was but not _why_. Stupid-and-self-centered he’d never bothered to take the time to consider _why_.

“Never physically,” Mrs. Finch said. “He was very careful about that. Altair, you have to be careful with this. You have to—”

“Oh shut up,” Altair snapped at her. He could not even find enough concern to care when she put her hand across her mouth in embarrassed sorrow and didn’t correct him for his rudeness. He looked at his breakfast (so tasty a moment ago) and picked his phone up off the table before he left the room. “I’m going upstairs.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I’d watch out for those pancakes, hippopotamus are responsible for approximately 2,900 deaths per year. As for your assertion that pancakes make everything better, they are just not something that I’ve ever enjoyed myself. I prefer 

The trouble was that every single one of Malik’s favorite breakfast foods easily revealed more about him than he was willing to give away. If Altair knew anything at all about the country he was born in, he would recognize the name of several of them. Malik could probably have come up with some generic term for some of his favorite breakfasts (salad? He’d had a few people ask him why he was eating salad for breakfast more than once) but that still seemed too damning. 

So he was left staring at the half-finished E-mail grasping for any possible breakfast food that he enjoyed that was blandly American. He was wracking his brain (channeling Kadar) and coming up with nothing but a sudden, terrible _need_ for fetteh with hummus. Unpleasantly saddled with that longing, he decided to remove ‘I prefer’ from the e-mail and sent the rest of it.

\--

Shirley-Templar: RT “son-of-no-one: got lost on my way to the kitchen. #ineedamap” for God’s sake if I have to form a search party to find you… (3m ago)

Desmond parked around the back of the house and headed for the kitchen entrance. Mrs. Finch was reliably present in the kitchen (generally) but on the occasion that she was not he had a key and a code for the alarm system. The door was unlocked when he got there but Mrs. Finch was not there.

It was never a good sign whenever Altair had been somewhere for less than twenty four full hours and he’d already managed to drive away the single most faithful employee that Grandmother had ever hired. Desmond opened the massive fridge, found a bottle of water and set off on his task. 

If Altair had already pissed off Mrs. Finch then he was most likely either hiding in his bedroom or out by his Grandmother’s grave. The tattoo on his wrist led Desmond to believe the grave was the more likely place to look but the bedroom was closer. He took the back stairs and stopped only long enough to throw his bag into the spare room that was made up for his infrequent visits. 

Altair was not in his room. Desmond huffed and went toward the front staircase—an ornate affair that curved in either direction from a center-top landing. It was ever the pride of the DeCort house with a magnificent chandelier hanging above the circle created by the two staircases. As an idiot kid, Desmond had joined the other boys in sliding down the polished wood bannister. They always landed on their asses at the bottom but the exhilaration of the slide down was worth the disapproval of the adults.

Desmond intended to take the front stairs because they were quicker to get outside and head for the family graveyard. He didn’t expect to find Altair sitting on the left staircase with his phone abandoned on the step next to him and his face pressed against his hand. He looked _awful_ , every bit as bad as Ezio made it sound like. Guilt made Desmond pause at the top of the staircase and then pushed him forward. “Happy to be home?” he asked.

Altair was startled to hear him, jumped and knocked his elbow against the bannister before saying, “ow” and rubbing at it. He turned his whole body sideways on the step and looked up at him with such abject pity. 

“What?” Desmond asked.

“Mrs. Finch told me,” Altair said. The confession was so compulsive there was simply no mistaking the immediacy of the issue. No doubt it had been hours (not days, not weeks, not years) since Altair was abruptly informed of Desmond’s past. The only redeemable thing about Altair was that he never defended himself when he knew that he had done something wrong. It was that quality that left him sitting there waiting to be punished for what he’d learned. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he said.

“Yeah,” Desmond said. He didn’t look at him. He looked at the chandelier and tried very hard not to think about why-or-how Mrs. Finch had managed to give away his secrets. “Did you just get tired of waiting for me to tell you myself?”

“What?” Altair said. He stood up. “I didn’t ask her. She was angry because William was here and I said something about Mama Maria and she just started _shouting_.”

“Fuck,” Desmond said. He slapped the bannister and turned around to go back up the steps. He could hear Altair following after him like an unwanted but faithful dog. The same way he’d followed Desmond ever since they were children. 

“I didn’t ask her,” Altair said again. He reached out and grabbed Desmond by the arm when his words failed to halt their progress toward the extra room. His face was worry-and-offense (at having his non-existent honor questioned) just seconds before Desmond shoved him backward away from him. Then his expression changed to _anger_. “Is that what you think of me?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Desmond demanded. He couldn’t think around the humiliation of having his secrets told for him. It had been bad enough before when he had to tolerate the charity of the Auditore’s (a choice he’d made at sixteen when he found himself forced to pick between people who thought he was an exaggerating liar and his father who had less reason than ever to tolerate his presence). “What have you ever done that would make me think anything else? Maybe you should just have gotten Ezio drunk and he would have told you everything!”

“I didn’t ask Mrs. Finch!” Altair shouted back at him. 

“But you didn’t stop her. I bet you sat there with your stupid face just listening and waiting to get the juicy details! What is it you want to know, Altair? What is it? Do you want to know that he only ever wanted me for the money? Do you want to know about how he kept the food locked up because nobody gave money to fat orphans? Too bad he was wrong about that! Because you were a fat fucking orphan and you got _everything_.”

Altair’s hands were in fists and his teeth were white-and-bared. His every breath seemed to expand his chest so far it made his shoulders rise noticeably toward his ears. “Fucking _Christ_ ,” Altair said like a gasp of pain.

“No? That’s not it? You want to know what Giovanni said to me? He said I was an _ungrateful son_. He said I was a stupid _boy_ that had ruined my father for life! I’m only as good as the money I wring from my _dying_ Grandmother!” Desmond was shouting like sounds-and-vowels-and ideas rattling loose from the scraped-raw insides of his lungs. “Federico asked me how I could live with myself. Grandmother ruined my father. She took everything from him. That’s what Federico said. He said, _I hope you got what you wanted_. You want to know how they tried to change her will for years? You want to know how they hired lawyers for my Father? But they can’t! She was smarter than them. She was _dying_ when I finally told her and she was still _smarter_ than them. Nobody can touch your fucking inheritance, Altair. You were her last hope, the last one she thought might not turn out to be such a fucking disappointment. Oh!”

“Stop,” Altair said softly.

“Maybe you want to know how my Father came into the room screaming at me about how he’d never forgive me for stealing his money while my Grandmother—the only fucking person that ever cared about me—was _dying_!” Desmond reached out and grabbed Altair by the shirt and yanked him forward. “Like this,” he said loud and deep. “This is how he called me a worthless little bastard, a mistake he regretted.”

Altair hugged him and Desmond closed his eyes with his hand keeping Altair from getting closer. “Fuck, Desmond,” Altair said to his shoulder. He was a miserable child, robbed of every comfort imaginable by the inevitable death of every parent he’d ever had. His fingers were scrambling for some handhold on Desmond’s clothes that would force them closer together.

Desmond let him go because there would be no denying Altair the comfort he wanted to find. He patted his back while Altair hugged him vicious and tight. “I’m sorry,” he said. But he still shook Altair off. “I’m leaving. If think you can manage not to tell everyone on the planet about this, I’d appreciate it.”

“Where are you going?” Altair asked.

“Anywhere but here,” Desmond said. He turned around so he didn’t have to look at Altair’s stupid face anymore. He made it all the way to the guest room to pick up his bag. He made it back to the kitchen where Mrs. Finch was hiding. He didn’t say anything to her but went through her kitchen toward the door.

She said, “I’m sorry.”

He slammed the door behind him. The car was where he left it but currently burdened with Altair in the driver’s seat managing to look bored at having to wait with all of his stuff thrown wildly and carelessly in the back seat. Desmond stopped next to the car and glared at him but Altair looked back at him without flinching. 

“Look,” the little bastard said when he pushed the driver’s side door open but did not get out. “Fuck everyone else in this miserable family, Desmond. If I never saw them again, I wouldn’t care. _You_ are the one that matters. I don’t want to know anything you don’t want to tell me. But I’m not leaving you.”

As far as declarations of loyalty went, Altair’s was uniquely selfish-and-selfless. 

“I’m not staying here,” Desmond said. He shoved both hands into his pockets and tried not to feel small and stupid. His father’s poisonous words were haunting the inside of his head again. The idea that the man had been _here_ had robbed the entire estate of the sense of security it had once had. Mrs. Finch’s unintentional betrayal was small in comparison to the enormity of that feeling. 

“Honestly,” Altair said with a barely-managed-smile, “which one of us has the most experience at doing stupid shit. Give me the keys, I’ll take you somewhere, get you drunk, introduce you to beautiful women and we can wake up in a hotel room we don’t remember paying for covered in pizza sauce.”

And so far as carefully extended olive branches begging for peace and forgiveness, this one was perhaps the only one he’d accept. Altair had been raised in his Grandmother’s house before he was abruptly transplanted into the care of Mama Maria who had taken Desmond aside (very early on) and explained that she would house-and-feed-and-protect him from the outside world but her husband and son would be allowed to have and voice their own opinions. 

We are a family of strong minds, Mama Maria had told him.

Altair could have rejected him the way the others had. Altair could have asked him to show him the proof, demanded to see the scars and then called him a liar when he could produce no truth. 

“Did that actually happen?” Desmond said. (But could he even be surprised?) “You woke up covered in pizza sauce?”

Altair rolled his eyes at him. “I am trying so hard to be mature and responsible right now. I have spent hours convincing myself not to call Ezio and demand explanations from him and the only thing in the world I want to do more than find a way to make you smile again is find the three or four biggest pieces of shit this family has to offer and beat them unrecognizable. So, don’t concentrate on pizza sauce.”

Desmond snorted. “Hitting them won’t change anything.”

“It’d make me feel better. A lot better.” His hand was still hanging out in the air waiting for the keys to be given to him while he sat stubbornly in the driver’s seat of the car. “But I can’t, so let’s get drunk and have sex with pretty women instead.”

“Fine,” Desmond said. “I have three days off work anyway.” He pulled the keys out and dropped them into Altair’s hand. He spared only a half-second to hope for the best before Altair was leaping out of the car and hugging him again. “I’m fine,” he said.

“So am I,” Altair said. Which was a very-clever-way to call him a liar.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Me [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Here’s one for you to write up, Sass. Woke up two hours ago, not even hung over but still drunk, with a three girls in my bed. I was on the floor. My cousin was sleeping under the table with a different girl. I can’t find one of my shoes but I did manage to find my new tattoo. Checked my twitter and found out that it was supposed to say ‘courage’ in Arabic calligraphy. It doesn't. Guess what it actually says? I’ll even send you a picture to put on your blog if you figure it out.

This photograph was of the Altair’s right hand, that space between his first knuckle and his thumb. The writing was small enough that from a distance it wouldn’t be distinguishable. The outline around it was still reddened with irritation and it was shiny from the salve that had been rubbed on it. 

“Grapes,” Malik said to his computer. “I can’t believe I fucked you.” Except that given his current track record of sleeping with attractive-but-shallow (or dumb) guys, he really couldn’t claim that he didn’t have a certain type. He sighed heavily and tried to work out how long he should wait to respond to imply he had difficulty finding someone to translate the word for him. Impatience won out over practicality. (He had a paper to write before he could accept this invitation for sex from the guy he’d slept with three days ago.) 

He paused only long enough to contemplate the fact that Altair seemed to realize what he’d inadvertently tattooed on himself and tried to put that little bit of previously-unknown information somewhere in his head where he’d remember it again when he needed it. Then he typed out a reply that allowed him to return to work and satisfied his celebrity stalker. 

\--

son-of-no-one: I don’t know anyone’s names but to all those people who got free drinks last night, least you could have done was talk me out of drunken cartwheels.

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one: someone’s name was Mitch. I remember a Mitch and a Megan.

Son-of-no-one: Mitch! Megan! You have a lot to answer for.

Altair was too drunk to check out of the hotel but he was sober enough to wake everyone up and send them on their way. When they were gone and it was only Desmond-and-him, they collapsed onto the (now-stained) couch and put their feet all over the coffee table. The TV was available for viewing but neither of them knew where the remote was.

“I have a tattoo,” Desmond said. He snorted at that, his eyes most squeezed shut and his face still rosy with the nearly toxic level of alcohol they’d managed to consume. “You are a terrible influence.”

“At least yours isn’t stupid,” Altair said. Desmond had a relatively innocuous looking geometric thing on his shoulder that fit attractively over the outline of the muscles he’d managed to build up through repetitions at the gym. It was attractive and simple and wasn’t the word grapes written in a foreign language. “Look at mine.” He stuck his hand out toward Desmond.

“Even if I weren’t drunk,” Desmond said as if from the bottom of a barrel of heavy syrup, “I wouldn’t know what that said. What’s it say?”

“Grapes,” Altair said. 

Desmond laughed at him, pressed his hand to his own chest and laughed so hard he seemed at risk of shaking apart. When he collapsed again he was smiling with his whole face and it was such a relief to see that Altair wasn’t even upset to be laughed at. “You idiot,” Desmond said affectionately. He reached out and cuffed Altair on the back of the head. “So what now?”

“Now?” Altair repeated. “Want to learn parkour?”

“I’m drunk,” Desmond said.

Altair stuck his tongue out at him. “I meant when you weren’t, idiot.” But he was sleepy and his hand itched and hurt in intervals depending on whether or not he remembered not to rub or scratch it. “You said three days, right?”

“Mm.” Desmond was already half-asleep. Altair got up and went to find a blanket to throw over him. Then he sat on the table with his hand pressed between his two hands and watched Desmond sleeping. Still drunk enough to wallow in the morose unresolved feelings about what he’d learned and sober enough to contemplate actual possibilities about the things he was capable of doing to the people that had hurt him.


	20. Chapter 20

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Grapes. I do not envy you for the moment when the many anonymous members of the internet catch on to the actual meaning of your tattoo. If I had the money to challenge you I might put money on the certainty that someone will relate the word ‘grapes’ on your hand to the size of your testicles. I’m curious as to how you came to have grapes tattooed on your hands since the implication in your challenge is that you can read Arabic. 

Altair was stewing. There was no denying that fact. He was sober now (at least) but Desmond was still passed on out the (apparently comfortable enough) couch in the hotel room. He’d managed to remain unconscious long enough that Altair went out, got hangover supplies, terrible greasy food and returned. 

Waking Desmond up long enough to force him to ingest some Gatorade and pain medicine (for his inevitable headache) had been a difficult enough task that it took almost a full half hour. Once he had done that, there was nothing to keep him from continuing to sit and stew.

Someone-had-hurt-Desmond was banging around his head like thunder claps and sending electrical pulses down his spine that left him alternatively hot-and-cold. He was bitter with unfulfillable wrath at the same time he was crippled by indecisive protectiveness. Every other thought he managed to have was:

no-but-Desmond-wouldn’t-like-that; no-but-someone-should _do_ something.

Desmond did not live his life by Grandma’s example. He did not believe in vengeance. He did not condone petty power plays. He was a master of evasion and forgiveness. 

Oh-but- _God-fucking-_ damn it. Desmond deserved someone to fight for him. (That was what his Grandmother had raised Altair to believe in. That was what she’d whispered into his ears at bedtime and in the morning and the example she had set for him every-day-of-his-life.) His Grandmother had been made of steel nails and poisonous spines, a powerhouse of threats and grudges that never-once-forgave or apologized. 

He had flopped back in the chair (exhausted from working out what he could-and-would-and-should do) and found the new message from Sass Badger. The immediacy of the answer suggested the asshole checked her E-mail as frequently as Altair. He looked down his body to his crotch at the suggestion that his testicles were the size and shape of grapes. That would be another great rumor to go with the many people who analyzed the shape of his ‘bulge’ to try to figure out the size of his dick. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I both read and speak Arabic. It’s a symptom of having it be an important half of my heritage. I still think in English and sometimes when I’m black out drunk on vodka, I buy drinks for an entire bar and get ill-advised tattoos that I can’t read until I’m much more sober. I’m interested in the fact that you either read Arabic calligraphy or have impressive researching skills. Either answers are interesting in their own way. I’m just guessing that you don’t want to confirm or deny anything about yourself since you just finished asking me to protect your anonymity. That’s fine.
> 
> I owe you a picture. What do you want? I can give you a picture of the hotel room—it’s fucking trashed. The tattoo? My greasy hair? Shirtless pictures of me seem to attract a lot of attention if you’re thinking about upgrading from your awful free blog to something more lucrative. I’d recommend that, by the way. You could be making a decent paycheck that way.

Malik was between classes, eating crackers from a vending machine, reading his E-mail when he should have been reviewing his notes for the next class. The idea of getting paid for his side project seemed like heaven. It’d be nice to get money for being universally hated by people that he’d never met. It was something that he’d considered (intently) but he had yet to contact the lawyer that was appointed to be the guardian of his identity. 

As to what sort of picture he wanted, there was no apparent answer. He could ask for a photograph of Altair’s new tattoo. He could ask for the hotel. He could ask for any number of photos to use on his blog to prove how big of a jerk the asshole still was. Although the general opinion that he’d gleaned from looking over the fansites dedicated to Altair was that everyone thought he was a sexy jerk. Apparently, the murder and disdain in his glare made him vastly more attractive to everyone. Everyone was collecting pictures of his mean glares and posting them, searching for the best and comparing one glare to another. 

Offering more of the same would drag people solely concerned with Altair’s face to his website and while that wouldn’t be bad for him if he did get paid for the sheer number of people that flocked to see his website, it would do nothing for his overall goal.

(Of course, having casual conversations with Altair wasn’t helping his overall goal either.)

Malik resolved to think it over and exchanged worrying over celebrities with a drinking problem to worrying over his next class.

\--

>   
> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> Are you the girl that works in Desmond’s coffee shop? I’m the cousin.
> 
> I am. The kid cousin or the attractive Italian one?
> 
> I’m the baby.
> 
> I’m assuming you stole my number from Desmond’s phone. 
> 
> Kind of a dick move, if you’re curious.
> 
> I’m aware.
> 
> I might ask for a favor in a few days. Just needed to have your number.
> 
> What kind of favor?
> 
> I’ll tell you when it’s relevant
> 
> Great. Good conversation. Let’s do it again.
> 
> Sure thing

Desmond woke up, rolled off the couch and went to take a thirty minute shower. When he reappeared he looked none the worse for the wear. His tattoo was still faintly pink all along the outline of the thin lines forming the palm sized geometric thing. It seemed like the most random and meaningless tattoo Desmond could possibly have gotten. (Perhaps even more thoughtless considering how much consideration his cousin put into everything.) “Where’s my phone?” Desmond asked as he dug into his bag for clothes to wear. “Who did I sleep with last night?”

Altair was working on his handstands, trying to walk on his hands and keep his body straight at the same time (surprisingly not as difficult as he imagined). Other than a sideways glance from Desmond, his feat didn’t seem to be impressive at all. So he lowered himself down to lay on his back and then sat up. “Your phone is on the table. I think her name was Brittany. She had red hair and big thighs. Either you, her, or both of you were squealing almost the whole time you were having sex.”

Desmond shoved his dirty jeans and underwear off without even the most passing attempt at modesty. It was hardly the first time Altair had seen him naked but it was possibly the first time Desmond hadn’t tried to avoid it. He tugged on his new underwear and flipped out his fresh jeans. “How is it you can remember the name and physical description of the woman I slept with but you still call girls by the wrong name when you sleep with them?”

“I do that on purpose.”

“So you remember every woman you’ve had sex with?” Desmond said. He zipped his jeans but seemed to stall out at the button. While Altair had only just taken an interest in his appearance, Desmond’s body was the product of years of dedication. He didn’t show it off but it was slim and well-defined without being obnoxious about it. His skin was a pleasant sort of tan despite the fact that his father was as desperately _white_ as their Grandfather had been. 

“Yes,” Altair said.

It was clear from Desmond’s eyebrows that he didn’t believe him. “Who’d you have sex with last night?”

“Devon and Georgia. Devon had these three moles on her breast and smelled like peaches. Georgia bleaches her hair and should probably brush her teeth more often.” 

Desmond scoffed at him. He pulled a T-shirt out of his bag before looking at his shoulder and pausing indecisively. “Was there some kind of instructions about what to do with this thing?” he asked. “Am I supposed to cover it or wash it or rub something on it?”

Altair got to his feet and went to find the bags of stuff he’d gone out earlier to grab. He found the jar of the recommended lotion and tossed it to Desmond. “Just don’t overuse it.”

“What about pizza sauce girl?” Desmond asked. “What was her name?”

“I thought we agreed not to get stuck on the pizza sauce thing.” Since the conversation was only going to go in directions he didn’t want it to, he interrupted Desmond’s rebuttal to say, “want to go get something to eat?”

“Is eat a euphemism for ‘get drunk again’ because my answer might be different for each.” He finished rubbing the lotion over the tattoo and shook his shirt out again. “Yeah, I should probably eat. What the fuck did I drink last night? I don’t remember anything.”

“Vodka,” Altair said.

“Fucking vodka,” Desmond muttered. “Where are my shoes?”

Altair shrugged and Desmond sneered.

\--

> ### Happy Hater Monday #031
> 
> It’s time to stop beating a dead horse. For those of you have just joined the website or for those of you that have joined the useless and entirely pointless crusade against a person who has long since abandoned this website, it is time to stop.
> 
> Specifically I am speaking to anyone that agrees with this:  
>  _People like this ‘Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad person make me literally sick. It is fine to like a celebrity. It is fine to be attracted to a celebrity. You can fantasize about one if that’s what you’re into but, to honestly think that you are *married* to one? To claim that you were married by angels of the Lord? This person is either mentally challenged or using Altair to get attention. I’d have sympathy for the first if she weren’t so basically stupid that she didn’t understand going online and challenging people to deny her claims was *inviting* them to mock and belittle her. If it’s the second, what a sick fucking creep. People on the internet, man._
> 
> Allow me to address your concerns in order:
> 
> 1\. Take medication.  
>  2\. Your condescending and uninvited approval of what is and is not acceptable is appreciated. Your opinions are valid. Thank you for taking the time to share them with the class.  
>  3\. On the off chance that you were not aware of this, people with actual psychiatric problems are not always capable of understanding that what they believe is not what is true. I, too, am guilty of poking fun at Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad. I was wrong. You are wrong. Every person who has seized this comment and repeated it throughout the threads of several posts and indoctrinated many others into their way of believing is also wrong.  
>  4\. Regardless of your differing beliefs on the appropriate way to interact with a celebrity and play out a fantasy, _nobody_ deserves to be belittled and mocked. Should Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad reappear and openly invite you to throw your demeaning comments in her direction, then you should do so. Absent her express permission and consent, you are doing the equivalent of punching a stranger in the face simply because they have a nose. That is wrong as well.  
>  5\. I could point out the hypocrisy of your disapproval of her attention-seeking behavior but I feel that your efforts speak for themselves.
> 
> Practice kindness, tolerance and good will. Leave Mrs. Ibn-La’Ahad alone.

Kadar was not doing his homework. It was his second week in school and he was already avoiding the simplest of assignments. It helped that Malik was entertaining enough that he didn’t really have to search for things to do instead. He simply had to go looking for the Sett and whatever delightful bit of nonsense Malik had written in between giving head to some idiot and falling asleep in the library.

“So,” Kadar said with the phone pressed between his cheek and shoulder, “when are you going to upgrade to a better website?”

“I don’t know. I have to call the lawyer. What do I do about this picture that he owes me?” Malik was clearly trying to do something while he talked on the phone. It wasn’t eating because he wasn’t smacking his lips and it wasn’t homework because Malik simply stopped talking when he was doing homework. It might have been walking because there was a suspicious hush to his voice and a conscious choice to speak English. Walking in public, even. 

“Ask for a picture of his dick,” Kadar said. He was speaking Arabic, not because it was default but purposefully to mess with Malik’s attempts to keep speaking English. 

“I am not asking for a picture of his dick,” Malik hissed at him. “I was trying to think of something that I could use for the blog. I don’t really need anything too interesting considering he was apparently dancing on a bar shirtless last night.”

“What?” Kadar said. He put that in the search bar and found several different versions of the same picture. There was that asshole, glowing in bar light, shirtless and blurry with motion. Camera phones just weren’t that great at quality photographs. “So you can just post these pictures for your Tuesday post. You need more pictures. Your blog has too many words. It’s one great big T-L-D-R.”

Malik sighed at him. “You are no help at all. Do your homework.”

“You’re no fun at all. Don’t sleep with that guy you stopped to look at.” 

“I did—how do you do that?” Malik demanded.

Kadar laughed. “You were walking, now you’re not. But there was no door opening or shutting so you just stopped randomly. I guessed.”

“Homework,” Malik repeated.

“Dick picture,” Kadar repeated. Then Malik hung up on him.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> So, how did you go from comforting your kid cousin to getting drunk enough to post word vomit to your twitter?
> 
> I may be a little drunk right now
> 
> And yet typing so legibly.
> 
> I have a scribe. She says she’s going to school to be a teacher.
> 
> Oh good. And why is the future educator of America at a bar on a Thursday night?
> 
> Because I don’t have classes on Friday. He’s arguing with the bartender now.
> 
> What’s your deal anyway?
> 
> My current deal is the fact that I’m having a conversation with a third party.
> 
> I just want to fuck the other one.
> 
> Oops, now the hot one is standing on the bar.
> 
> Well, since he’s up there tell him to take his shirt off.
> 
> I’m taking a picture.
> 
> He’s back. He wants to tell you that some bartenders do not know now to fucking mix drinks and it’s a professional embarrassment.
> 
> At this point, continuing this conversation will only end badly for everyone.
> 
> There’s this slutty black haired bitch that keeps eying your man
> 
> He’s not mine.
> 
> I ordered him another drink. At this point he is chemically castrated
> 
> You’re welcome
> 
> I didn’t thank you.
> 
> I know you didn’t. Any advice about how to get the hot one to notice me?
> 
> Grab him by the dick.
> 
> Oh?
> 
> On a whole, the cousins are morons. Best to go the direct route. 
> 
> In your attempt to bed the world’s biggest slut, could you try to remember to drag the guy whose phone you’ve stolen back to wherever they are staying?
> 
> Sneaking out before they wake up. Had to say thanks for the advice and let you know they are both passed out in their hotel room.
> 
> Great. I’m super pleased to hear it. Be sure to report your findings on Little Tommy’s dick to the relevant website.

Desmond did not get drunk. Desmond got other people drunk quite often (for money) but he did not enjoy the practice himself. He didn’t like the process, he didn’t like the effects and he definitely did not like the consequences of the morning after. 

Waking up the second day in a row with a hazy-grayish memory of the night before and a pounding headache was doing nothing to make him feel better about anything in his life. He managed to wake up without any new permanent additions to his body and from the state of his clothing possibly managed not to fuck anyone else he didn’t know. 

He crawled across the floor toward his phone that was left on a side table near the door of the hotel room. When he got there, he didn’t have the energy to do more than lay on the plush carpet and think fond thoughts of dying. He barely managed to read the conversation on the screen when he unlocked the phone and could not manage to figure out how to feel about it. There was no resolution to his unresolved feelings before he passed out again.

When Desmond woke up again, there was a bottle of Gatorade and a bottle of pills next to his face, drool on his arm and a new message on his phone letting him know that Altair had gone out to get food and would return shortly.

Desmond took two pills, drank the whole bottle and then got up and went to take a shower. By the time he emerged, Altair was there with a buffet of bad choices. Everything from fat, dripping greasy cheeseburgers to chocolate milkshakes to some suspiciously delicious fried chicken. The whole spread took up the entire table. “Fuck,” Desmond said when he saw it.

“No, you struck out last night,” Altair said. It was clearly the sort of snide conversation he had with Ezio a lot because the response was so automatic that it could not have required thought. He finished tossing napkins over the pile of disgusting food he’d bought and tipped the chair to the side so everything on it fell off. “I, however, was nearly devoured by Rhonda who is going to be a teacher one day.”

Desmond rubbed his face and picked up the other chair the hotel room had to offer, righted it back onto its legs and sat down. “How did we end up getting drunk again?” Desmond asked.

“It was your idea. Then you started arguing with the bartender about how to make a Bloody Mary.”

“You danced on the bar?”

“Yes I did,” Altair said. “I’m sure that’ll be all over the internet by now. Just waiting to hear about how ill-advised it was from Sass. In the meantime, I have supplied you with recovery food.” He motioned at the overwhelming pile of things between them.

Desmond picked up a piece of chicken and considered its virtues compared to a cheeseburger (with bacon and lettuce and mayo) and decided to eat both. He made a plate out of the crinkly paper wrapped around the sandwich. “So,” he said around the mouthful of bread and meat. “We have to talk about this.”

“I thought you said we didn’t.” It was strange to have spent so much time around Altair and to have no idea what he had been doing. Desmond was not the one that went to bars with him. He did not participate in male bonding that involved drunken stupidity and sleeping with interested women. Desmond was the boring-and-responsible one that had taught Altair how to drive and helped him buy his condo and sat next to him while the lawyers explained the nature of his inheritance and yearly allotment of expendable income. Regardless of how Altair found out about Desmond’s past, the fact that he had known for this many days and Desmond had no idea how he was processing the information or what he intended to do with it was troubling at best. (At worst, it was clear negligence on his part.) 

“Well, that was before. I was angry. So, what exactly did you hear?”

If possible, Altair looked more uncomfortable at the thought of having to tell Desmond than Desmond felt at having to be told. He picked at a pile of French fries while he considered how to explain what he’d heard (and what he’d understood). “That your Father was abusive but very careful not to physically hurt you and that the Auditores are a bunch of dickheads. Whoever did not believe you got disinherited.”

Well, most of that was factually accurate. Desmond finished chewing his food while he thought about how to proceed from that. “Ezio didn’t—”

“Do anything,” Altair finished for him. 

“It’s not that simple. Giovanni is his Father, Federico is his brother. Mama Maria—” But Altair’s face was going cold with hatred. Oh, Grandma would have been so proud she’d burst at the sight of it. The chill caught around the flat disapproval of Altair’s frown. The bright and blind hatred in his eyes. Desmond sighed. “It was awful.”

“I don’t remember,” Altair said. It was an admission of guilt.

“You were twelve. You just lost your Grandmother. Nobody wanted you to know; no matter what else they thought or said—you deserved to be protected.” 

“And you didn’t?” Altair asked. There was no anger in it. There was only disbelief.

“I ran away from home. I went from living on a farm somewhere in the middle of fucking nowhere doing manual labor from sunup to sundown to living with my Grandmother in a mansion. I convinced her to remove my Father from her will. The family revolted because my Dad is a charming fucker when he needs to be and he’d already convinced Giovanni that he was a _good guy_ long before any of this happened. Giovanni fought for him because as far as Giovanni was concerned I was a whining fifteen year old that didn’t like having to do hard work. Federico can’t stay out of anything. Grandma was already diagnosed terminal by the time. She just cut them out. Except me and you,” Desmond said. 

“Yeah, because you’re rolling in riches,” Altair said.

“I didn’t want it. I told her if she gave me anything, my Father would never stop trying to get it from me. She said that I shouldn’t let being afraid of him dictate my future. In the end we compromised. She gave me five million dollars as discreetly as she could but everyone knew about it.”

“You have five million dollars but you don’t have a fucking car?” Altair said. “You have _five million dollars_ and you work at a bar and eat store brand macaroni and cheese? That disgusting kind they make with powder?”

“I like the mac and cheese.” Desmond could try to explain to Altair how greed had driven his father insane. He might have been able to persuade Altair into understanding that money had nothing to do with happiness and that when Desmond had told Grandma he didn’t want the money he had been completely sincere. It was not something Altair would understand (now and from him) so it was easiest to set the whole debate to the side. “In any case. Ezio never agreed with his brother.”

“Yeah, how noble,” Altair said.

“Claudia doesn’t either.”

“Great,” Altair snapped. “So they can just sit there with Mama Maria quietly not saying anything while people treat you like shit. Do you know what our Grandmother would have done if she had seen that? Their house would still be burning to this day.”

“Yeah, but I’d still be in the same position, wouldn’t I? Invited out of obligation but clearly the family backstabber who lied to his Grandma because he didn’t like raking leaves.” His Father liked to tell that story, about how he’d sent Desmond out to rake a few acres worth of leaves and discovered he’d run off instead. Work was good for a boy, was his Father’s defense.

“If you ask me specifically not to do anything, I won’t,” Altair said bluntly.

Yes, well. “I’m asking you to be absolutely sure before you do anything.”

“Did they make you feel the way William did?” Altair asked. 

Desmond looked at his food, still hot enough to be oozing grease and yet as unappetizing as the thought of eating dirt might have been. He tried to think of an answer and couldn’t force himself to say anything except, “just _be sure_ , Altair.” When he looked up he thought he’d see terrible pity (the most offensive of reactions) but he saw the exact same exacting-cold-certainty in Altair’s eyes that he’d seen in his Grandmother’s. The look of someone that believed him and would not _rest_ until justice had been served. “What do you internet girlfriend is going to say about you dancing on a bar and getting grapes tattooed on your hand?”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Altair said. He looked at the word on his right hand and shrugged. “She seemed more impressed that I knew Arabic than she was disapproving of the idiocy of the word grapes.”

“Did you tell her you know eight or nine languages?” Desmond asked.

“Ha. I’m sure she’d find nothing objectionable in me gloating about it. I know ten. English, Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, German, Italian, French, Russian, enough Finnish to ask for directions and very little Korean.” As if knowing eight or nine different languages was not enough of an accomplishment that he had to bother correcting it to ten. “I want to learn Japanese next. It sounds fun.”

“Oh yeah, tons of fun.” Desmond hated learning new languages. He’d only picked up Italian as a defense mechanism against the idiots he lived with briefly. Anything else was pure torture to bother trying to learn. “I need to go home.”

“Yup,” Altair agreed. 

\--

son-of-no-one: in regards to Sass’ recent post, I’d like to say what she seems too polite to manage. You’re a hypocritical dick head, and I’d like to invite the whole world to mock and belittle you.

Son-of-no-one: more importantly, I’d like to also apologize to Mrs. Ibn’La-Ahad. You’re most likely crazy but I wish you the best.

Altair did not get Desmond drunk. Desmond got Desmond drunk after Desmond decided to go to another bar. The effort of consuming alcohol seemed to be exhausting because he’d passed out as soon as Altair shoved him into the backseat of his car. It was dark when he drove them home (back to Desmond’s place).

“Come on, you lush,” Altair said when he had to drag Desmond’s barely cooperating body up six flights of stairs to his floor. Once they were safely in Desmond’s apartment, he called Lucy who was surly at four in the morning and asked her to come over. Then he sat around for thirty minutes waiting for her to get there which was fine because he needed time to buy plane tickets.

Lucy showed up wearing pajamas, carrying her work clothes and looking two-thirds still asleep. “Why did I need to be here? I’m sure he’s been drunk alone before.”

Altair was tucking his wallet and phone back into his pockets while he motioned at the various furniture around the couch where he’d dropped Desmond’s unconscious, stinking near-corpse. “I’d just feel better if there was someone he actually liked here when he woke up. Call in sick or something, I’ll pay you whatever you’d make there. Or double that.”

That seemed to make Lucy wake up enough to concentrate. “What exactly is going on? I’m just guessing that you can’t tell me specifics but some ballpark idea of what I’ve just walked into would be appreciated.”

“Family stuff,” Altair said. 

Lucy rolled her eyes at that. “Don’t do something he wouldn’t.”

“I am going to do something he wouldn’t and I’m doing it because he won’t and he should have.” Then he pulled open the door. “Look, I’m just guessing by the fact that he never deletes your messages that you’re someone he likes and trusts so don’t fuck this up. Blame everything on me, take care of him.” Then he left and slammed the door after himself.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  It is 4:30 in the morning. Whatever flight you on is obscenely early. Things like that should be banned for public harm. It’s too late at night (I have not yet gone to sleep) for me to properly dissect what you said from what you meant from what you may or may not be asking. I don’t know why you have to hit one of your cousins but I’ll just assume that if you’re willing to take a flight at this hour that you cannot be dissuaded. Good luck, don’t fall over and break your hand.
> 
> You were a competent lover. I have limited commentary to offer. You are a dick. This cannot be a surprise to you. I’m both relieved and saddened that the same circumstances have happened more than once. Consider not being a dick.
> 
> If it matters, I did not sleep with you for money.
> 
> **Altair Ibn-La’Ahad wrote:** __  
>  >On a very early morning flight to punch my cousin in the face. I haven’t figured out which  
>  >cousin. None of them are good options, one of them deserves it more than the others, one of  
>  >them will take it in the spirit in which it was intended, and one of them would probably kill  
>  >me.  
>  >  
>  >So was the sex just really bad or did I say something offensive and stupid to you before, during  
>  >or afterward? I don’t get a lot of feedback from most of my sex partners. I get the feeling they  
>  >don’t really care how good or bad I am. It’s more like they expect me to ejaculate money or  
>  >something.  
> 

Malik sat up on his bed (sluggish and dreary from sleep deprivation) waiting to see if he was going to get a reply or not. Altair’s personal problems shouldn’t have been important enough to keep him awake long after he should have been asleep (so he did sleep with that guy Kadar told him not to and had to do his homework all night instead of sleep) but Malik couldn’t stop staring at his empty inbox nonetheless. 

No message came before he passed out.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Hey, where are you filming today?
> 
> We’re at the house, why?
> 
> I’m bored and curious. How’s it going?
> 
> Surprisingly well now that my Mother has finished complaining about her floors.

There was a long standing rule that one had to be invited to the Auditore house. To get past the gate and down the drive and all the way to the door, you had to prove yourself so many times it was possible to mistake a visit to the house as an audience with a monarch. Altair had successfully secured an open invitation to Mama Maria’s fabulous home and as such was able to get through every security measure with almost no effort at all. 

It wasn’t difficult to follow the stink of Mama Maria’s acid disapproval at having her home disrupted by outsiders. The gardens were an immediate no as nobody but family was ever allowed into them for any reason (at all, ever). Altair went past the pool, out along the path that sectioned off the adult sections of the sprawling estate from the ‘children’s’ area. There was an old playground near the edge of the property that they used to drive ATVs out to when they felt the sudden urge to cross monkey bars. (Once upon a time, he was told, there had been a miniature train to transport children to the playground. That was gone before he arrived.) 

Altair found Ezio in the middle of a crowd of people telling a story as if it were the most entertaining thing that had ever been done. The people around him had the distinct look of purchased friends (they were all far too interested in everything Ezio was saying) but they made the scene look authentic. Altair slid between a gap between some guy with a camera and another with a clipboard and said, “hey Ezio!”

Ezio did not even pause to be offended in the middle of his story about the grounds but shifted his smile into the one he reserved for greeting family members he didn’t particularly like. (A face he used often on one of his Great Aunts when she came for Christmas.) He reached out his hands toward Altair and started to offer a greeting. His attempt was interrupted when Altair knocked his hand away and backhanded him hard enough it actually threw him off balance. 

The immediate spike of adrenalin surged through his body and sharpened the shocked sound of the anonymous people standing around Ezio in a knot and the excited chatter of the crew behind him. It gave him a crystal clear view of the instant pink rash across Ezio’s scruffy cheeks and the tightening anger in his eyebrows as he straightened to his full height (still shorter than Altair). There was no question on his face but Altair answered it anyway.

“I know what you didn’t do,” Altair said. Quick-and-leathery in Italian so Ezio’s infuriated little brain would understand it. He stood there watching Ezio’s hands tighten up into fists until his knuckles were blanching white. Altair stood and waited one-two-three-four-five seconds. It was longer than it had ever taken Ezio to hit anyone back, the action was so automatic that he had once punched his Father purely out of natural reflex. (It had been hilarious at the time, when Giovanni was stunned by the sudden violence and Ezio had realized what he’d done and immediately started groveling.) 

Ezio was not going to hit him. The bastard was going to stand there with his face going pink from getting slapped like a _bitch_ (that he was) and he wasn’t going to do anything about it. Not a damn thing but force his jaw to open far enough to try to say something. (Something _rational_ , something _sensible_ , something that you said to the fucking _baby_ who didn’t understand what the big kids were talking about.) 

Altair hit him again with his knuckles cracking across his face and twice as much force as the first time. 

“Merda!” Ezio spat to the side and when he straightened up. He crossed himself like he was about to commit some unforgiveable sin. “Then we will have this fight,” he said to Altair (in Italian, sweet and melodic). Then he hit Altair, _punched_ him with the full brunt of his whole body and the anger-and-humiliation that he must have felt standing there. There was no rationality in the brilliant-spider-web of pain that spread through Altair’s face. 

His brain felt jostled, he only just barely stayed on his feet, and the grass was slick under his feet as he propelled himself sideways out of the range of getting hit again. Altair was back up on his feet with blood in his mouth and a sense of satisfaction that sit awkwardly next to the fury making his heart thud hard in his chest.

Ezio grabbed him by the shirt with the tips of his fingers and dragged him forward before he threw him backward. Altair stumbled a few steps, turned on his heels and darted forward away from the camera and the assembly of fake friends. Ezio did not so much as pause a moment to utter another curse but was on his heels immediately. They were idiots, running the same path they’d run when they were almost kids, and Ezio’s anger was a litany of filthy curses about his lineage dogging at his back. 

Altair ducked to the side when he felt Ezio’s hand brush across his back and turned with a stutter of steps when he heard Ezio hit the ground. “There is no fight!” he shouted at Ezio. “You are not my family as long as you side with them. They are wrong.”

At that moment, Ezio did not care. He was incapable of caring. “Then I will have no reason not to hit you.” He was on his feet again, charging like a bull. 

Altair ran and Ezio followed him until they hit the edge of the old playground. It was all pebbles beneath the old equipment, held in place by the wooden barrier. Altair jumped into the rocks and lost his balance, Ezio slammed into him from behind and they both fell over and hit the pebbles with a fantastic crash of limbs and tiny rocks. Altair ended up on his back with both of his elbows shoving at Ezio’s chest to get him off while Ezio held him down with one hand and tried to get up onto his knees to hit him again. 

“You think this is what he wanted?” Ezio shouted at Altair. “You think this was what he needed someone to do?”

Having no better options, Altair grabbed Ezio by the face and knocked their heads together as hard as he could. He saw stars in the sudden blackness of his vision but it got him free from Ezio, at least. His head was still spinning as he managed to get back on his feet. “Yes!” he shouted back at Ezio. There was blood on his forehead when he pressed his hand against it and instant swollen pressure in the center of his forehead. 

Ezio was on his elbows and knees shaking his head. When he managed to straighten up on his knees, his whole face was reddened from pain and injury. The anger that was dictating his actions had not yet cooled enough to allow logic to prevail. He got to his feet with the obvious intent to finish the fight he had promised Altair. “And you will be his avenger, Altair?” He smirked with pinked teeth showing through his red lips. “You will need to learn how to hit properly if you intend to take on my brother.”

Altair kicked him in the leg and Ezio punched him again. The stupid pebbles under his feet shifted with the blow and Altair fell to the left with absolutely no chance of catching himself. He saw the metal pole (part of the monkey bars) only half-seconds before he slammed into hard enough to make it feel as if something was ripping open across his lip and cheek. The pain was dizzying in a way entirely different from head butting Ezio had been. He landed on his back with both his hands pressed against his face. His lip felt as if it were gaping open in entirely the wrong way. 

“Fuck,” Ezio spit as he reached down and dragged him up. “You are a pain in my ass!” But he wasn’t angry. He put his arm around Altair’s back and hefted him up so he was on his feet (no longer a stable certainty in his life). “Do not pass out.”

Blood was pouring out of his face, through his fingers (slippery, red and hot) and down into his shirt collar. Everything felt terribly sticky and the pain was a throb that grew more immense by the second. By the time they managed to get off the playground both the camera men and Claudia (no doubt summoned by spectacle) had managed to find them. 

“Boys!” she said with one hand thrown up into the air. “Fighting over nothing again, I presume.”

“Yeah,” Ezio agreed with a half-smile. “But what a fight!” He shook Altair in the universal language of ‘play along’ and Altair glared at the camera and his cousins as he shrugged and kept one hand pressed to his bleeding face.

\--

son-of-no-one: this gruesome wound will make me more attractive. Just look at @EzioAuditore. 

@EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, you are too envious, cousin. You should have tried for chest hair instead of matching scars.

Desmond woke up disoriented not by his hangover but by the fact that he was in his apartment, it was the middle of the day and Lucy was slouching in his favorite chair wearing her pajamas with a bowl of something balanced on her chest and daytime TV playing dully in the background. “Fuck,” he said.

“Well I wouldn’t say no normally but you smell right now,” Lucy said. She moved her feet off his coffee table and leaned forward to set down her empty bowl and picked up his phone to toss at him. “Altair just posted a tweet about a gruesome wound that your Italian stallion cousin responded to with something about matching scars.”

“Christ,” Desmond said. He picked his phone up off the floor where it had fallen and rubbed his crust eyes with his fingers. He had to turn the phone over twice before he found the screen and managed to unlock it. There were no messages from either of his idiot cousins. Not any of them. Which was not a good sign.

“So, I’m actually here because Altair didn’t want you to be alone. Put the phone down, take a shower and come back out here so we can play one of your stupid games for a while. Whatever is happening, you can’t do anything about it right now.”

Whatever was happening was going to change the shape of the family forever. Desmond had almost literally handed Altair a live grenade and told him to throw it at someone. It was only amazing that he’d managed to have the sense to throw at Ezio who was the most forgiving option available. “Yeah,” he agreed.

“Good,” Lucy said. “I’ll make you coffee and waffles.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> You’ll be pleased to know that I did not break my hand. I did manage to slice open my face by bashing it into a metal pole. I sent you a picture but if you have an aversion to wounds you probably should not look at it. 
> 
> Competent lover? I cannot even tell if this means that I’m average with your other lovers, too bland to remember in detail or if it’s an outright insult. Please tell me you had an orgasm at least. My cousin lectured me for two days about the importance of making sure your partner has an orgasm.  
> 

The problem with Sass Badger was that she did not have a twitter and he did not have her phone number and thus there was no immediate satisfaction to be had by sending her annoying messages. 

The other problem was that he was given pain medicine and left alone with Ezio who had a multi-colored face now. He was sitting in the uncomfortable chair by the bed they put Altair in with his elbows on his knees and his hands laced tight enough there were white pressure marks where they were squeezed together. “Did you actually talk to Desmond?” Ezio asked when they were alone and the door was closed. 

Pain medicine made Altair feel as if he were floating. It was a lovely, warm and pleasant feeling. “Yes.”

“Then why did you hit me?” Ezio demanded. “There are better targets for your wrath! People who have actually _done_ something.”

Altair rolled his head around to look at Ezio. It took more effort than it should have. His head felt like it was a stone. “Who cares about them?” he asked. “They were attacking him. You didn’t protect him.”

Ezio sighed and scrubbed his fingers through his hair—much of it pulled free from the band it was pulled back with. “They are my family, Altair. My Father and my brother. My Mother said we would not get involved unless it escalated.”

Altair meant to give him the finger and ended up gesturing wildly to the side instead. He smacked his hand on the IV pole that was standing by the bed and it rolled away and knocked into the wall. “It did.” He managed to sit up and licked at the heated wound on his face. 

Ezio was nodding his head even before he leaned back in the chair. “Yes,” he said at last, “it did. This,” he motioned back and forth between them, “is not the way we will solve it.”

Of course it wasn’t. “I am not a baby anymore.” That was an important starting point. Something that Ezio needed to know before they could move forward. The only acknowledgement Altair got for the statement was a twitch of Ezio’s eyebrow. “We have to make this right.”

“How?” Ezio demanded. “You didn’t see it. I saw it. I was there. _I_ was scared and humiliated and ashamed and it was not even me that bastard was talking to. How do you make that right?”

Altair would have hit Ezio again if he could have gotten on his feet without falling over again. Instead he grimaced as best he could with his face glued together and said, “I’ll deal with William however Desmond wants. We are going to make your family apologize for what they did.”

“Ha!” Ezio said. “You have not met them if you believe that.” Yet, he nodded his head. “If you think of a way, you will have my support. Do not attack Federico. You will not have a face left if you try.” He rubbed his hand through his hair again. “Are you staying?”

“Naw,” Altair said. “Take me back to the airport. You know, if the doctor lets me. Wherever he is.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Why don’t you have a twitter? You should get a twitter. I’m drugged right now. I don’t remember what it was. I thought I was getting on a plane but I honestly am not sure where this car is taking me. I can type really well stoned. 
> 
> This is the best typing I have ever typed.
> 
> This is good shit.

Malik tried very hard not to laugh at the idiot. Yet, it was simply too stupid not to laugh at. On impulse (not with anything approaching logic) he sent back a message that said he wanted a picture of this exact moment. (He wasn’t even that sure how quickly the E-mail was delivered or how long ago Altair had sent his.) 

Four minutes later, while he was trying very hard to concentrate on the boring book he was reading in the library (instead of the icon for his inbox). He’d almost managed it when he received a message and there was really no point in pretending to do work just because he was in the library.

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I don’t know if that worked. I don’t know if I managed a picture of me. You might have gotten a picture of the window. Let me know. 
> 
> Quality typing, though. I’m right. This is quality. This is a touch screen. I have huge fingers. I feel so dainty.

The picture was indeed of most of Altair’s face. It cut across his face on a slant so most of his left eye was out of the frame but the obvious quirk of a smile on his swollen lip was very noticeable. The wound itself wasn’t as bloody as it had been in the previous picture. His right eye was visible and dimly, in the background, the general impression of the backseat of a vehicle. Altair looked stoned-as-hell but amused by his own incompetence. (Or perhaps proud of his fantastic typing skills.) 

He hadn’t even finished looking at the picture before he got another message.

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> But twitter. You need a twitter or something. This e-mailing thing is annoying. Disapprove of me with 168 characters or less. You can do it.  
> 

No, but Malik wasn’t going to make a twitter just to make himself more accessible to the jerk. He closed his laptop so he wouldn’t be tempted to answer any more messages. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> What the fuck have you done?
> 
> Also giving me a baby-sitter for the day was a nice thought but I’m an adult
> 
> You’re an adult that got black-out drunk three nights in a row despite never having gotten slightly more than stumbling drunk for the whole of your life.
> 
> Consider me worried.
> 
> I slapped Ezio like the bitch he is. He understood when he calmed down.
> 
> What was that meant to accomplish?
> 
> He deserved it and I need his help.
> 
> You said don’t do anything I’m not one hundred percent sure about.
> 
> I’m one hundred percent sure that you are my family. I am one hundred percent sure you protect your family.
> 
> On a different note, when are you going to take that girl out on a date?
> 
> She’s a friend. I’ve explained this.
> 
> Are you coming home?
> 
> Yes. As soon as I can find a flight.

Desmond had tried to convince himself to go to work but he was too hung over to consider it. He called out sick after Lucy left, went to bed and woke up the next morning before impatience had him sending Altair vaguely threatening texts. He might have stayed in bed the rest of the day if not for the knock at his door that dragged him up.

Lucy was there with a cup of delicious manna from heaven (or his favorite coffee from her shop). She was dressed for work with her nametag pinned to her apron and everything. “I thought about calling out ‘hired by a rich idiot’ for a second day but I figured I might get written up.”

“Well, Altair would probably pay you indefinitely as long as nobody pointed it out to him.”

“Ha,” Lucy said bluntly. Then she held out his cup. “I really came to make sure you weren’t drunk again. I don’t know what happened, I don’t need to know but I hope whatever it is or was gets better.”

Desmond took a deep inhale of the smell of coffee through the small gap in the lid while she spoke. He looked at the frank concern (and disapproval) on her face and nodded his head. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Well, I hope that _that_ blatantly lie becomes fact as soon as possible. If you’re up for a run this afternoon, text me.”

“Hey,” Desmond said (because she mentioned texting) before she could leave his doorway. “What was with you and the teacher lady who had my phone? Did she think you were my girlfriend or something?”

Lucy’s face softened into a sad laugh. Her eyes closed briefly before she looked back at his face and shrugged. “I guess. How did getting chemically castrated by liquor go for you?”

“I don’t remember. I woke up on the floor. Altair told me I didn’t sleep with anyone. Are you mad?”

Lucy shook her head. “No. I just wasn’t sure what was going on and I was worried. But then, you are capable of doing dumb shit so that’s a relief. You were close to being too good to be believed.” Then she stepped away from the door and motioned down the hall toward the stairs. “I have to go. Work awaits. Text me.”

“Yeah, I will,” Desmond said. He waved at her when she pulled open the door to the stairs and then went back inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Lucy. Take your own advice.


	21. Chapter 21

> **Kadar**
> 
> Sign me up to be gay. I’m done with this bullshit.
> 
> I’d love to have an appropriate reaction to this statement
> 
> Give me a hint
> 
> I’m starving to death. Everyone else is eating. EVERYONE ELSE IS ENJOYING THEIR LIVES.
> 
> Not me. I’M JUST FEELING CLOSER TO MY GOD.
> 
> The happiest day of my life was the first day Mom made you fast with us
> 
> THEN YOU SHOULD BE VERY HAPPY RIGHT NOW ASSHOLE.
> 
> Oh yeah, I’m thrilled. I can’t eat, I can’t drink, I can’t have sex, I have to be nice to people and have to read the Quran while hiding in my bed after my roommate goes to sleep.
> 
> My life is great.
> 
> AHAHAHAHAHA
> 
> I didn’t think she could do it. 
> 
> I mean I know our Mother. But I didn’t think she could manage it.
> 
> She sent me the Quran. She called me. She said she wasn’t expecting anything.
> 
> She just said she was hoping I wouldn’t forget
> 
> She said my sexuality was not an excuse.
> 
> The fact that you don’t believe in any god might have been relevant to mention.
> 
> Maybe I should link her your sixteen page rant about religion.
> 
> You are even more cranky when you are hungry.
> 
> Someone just walked past me eating pizza. 
> 
> There is no god that would allow this.
> 
> I had to turn down two hot guys who asked me over for sex.
> 
> I’ve never had sex. 
> 
> I win.

The only good part of observing Ramadan (to appease his Mother, primarily) was that without sex to distract him from completing his homework he had managed to finish all of his tasks on time and even read ahead and did extra research. (It felt quite a bit like when he was still in high school and suppressing all of his sexual impulses into perfect attendance and test scores.) He had so much time left over (since he was not eating, drinking or having sex) to look into updating his website. He looked up the lawyer he had been assigned and found that he had an excellent reputation (of course he did) and that his fees were absolutely horrifying. 

Malik had been close to hyperventilating when he discovered the approximate cost of hiring such a lawyer. Guilt had been an all-consuming emotion that he only managed to overcome by reminding himself that Altair had more money than he had purposes. He had not asked for a lawyer (certainly not one that he couldn’t afford) and that even if he had, Altair was capable of making the choice to pay or not pay for one. 

Still, though, Malik had just sat there with a stunned with his mouth hanging open for a good two minutes while his brain continued to try to make sense of what his eyes were seeing. 

The lingering confusion and guilt about the cost of the lawyer (and an odd spell of quiet from Altair himself) delayed him from making a definite choice about what to do with his website. The sheer number of people that viewed it each day gave him some sense of confidence that he could make a meager amount of money from adding advertisers. The limited capabilities of his current blog and a lack of a true domain name kept him from making the most out of the situation.

Malik floundered with indecision.

\--

> [Video starts blurry and dark before slowly coming into focus. There is a brightly lit bar in the background. A variety of drinks sits on the table where the camera is obviously resting. There are many people talking and moving around off camera. Altair sits in front of the camera wearing a well-tailored dark colored suit.]
> 
> Altair: So. This is not how I usually dress when I go to a bar. If you’ve seen that ten second video of me dancing on the bar you’d know this is much more clothing than normal. I was supposed to be at this fundraiser. It’s one of those things that I’ve been going to since I was ten. A lot of small talk and speeches and rich people patting themselves on the back for donating money.
> 
> Woman: [Enters view from the left, ducks down to look into the camera] What are you doing?
> 
> Altair: Making a video. This is Ashley. [Motions to the dark-haired woman. She waves and then moves away.] Anyway. You cannot just donate money and not going to this thing. I think it’s called the King’s Daughter’s Charity Ball or something like that. My Aunt is on the board. I was going to go and then I thought—why the fuck should I? The food is bad, the company is dull and I don’t need to feel any better about myself for giving away money. So I decided to do something _actually fun_.
> 
> Ashley: [From off camera.] Body shots!
> 
> Altair: [Turns to look off-camera.] My body or your body?
> 
> Ashley: [Off camera.] Why not both?
> 
> Altair: Well, I have to go. [Winks at camera.] 

Altair woke up at Desmond’s place without his shirt. His tie was lying on the floor, his suit jacket was thrown across the TV but his shirt was consciously absent. In place of it there was a stretchy-clingy bit of sheer pink that he supposed was meant to be a shirt. His head was not throbbing (which meant Desmond had watered down his drinks) but his mouth still tasted like bad decisions. He sat up, discovered his pants were not buttoned or zipped. A quick check of his naked skin showed he had not gotten another ill-advised tattoo. 

Desmond was not sleeping in the chair which meant he had most likely remained sober (while at work, surprising) and was sleeping in his room. Altair got to his feet (after a few tries) and grabbed his new pink shirt (like thing) and his phone and went to the bathroom. He meant to throw the shirt in the hamper that hid in the hallway closet outside of the bathroom but he happened to catch his reflection in the mirror. There was lipstick smeared across his mouth, a blemish of it on his throat and the obvious welt of scratches going down one of his arms. The petal pink of the shirt (like thing) across his shoulder added the appropriate commentary of how his night had gone.

He took a picture with a flat frown on his face (enhanced by the rich red smear of lipstick) and contemplated if he should gift it to his twitter (where Mama Maria was sure to see it and disapprove) or give it to Sass (who would remind him that she didn’t want shirtless pictures of him and possibly not make it public). While attacking Mama Maria’s carefully constructed ‘happy family’ image was his end goal, putting the image up on his twitter and leaving it there seemed petulant but not _purposeful_. 

Mama Maria would sigh over how stupid he was. She would not see it as the attack it was. 

So he sent it to Sass instead. Then he took a shower, chucked his clothes (and that stupid pink shirt) into the hamper and went (naked) out to the living room to get his bag of extra clothes from under the couch. By the time he got there Desmond was yawning through pulling on a jacket (it was still September, not nearly cold enough for a hoodie) that was interrupted by Altair’s naked intrusion. 

“Christ,” Desmond said. “Clothes?”

Altair stuck his tongue out at him. “Going for coffee?”

“No. Lucy’s off today. Going to run. You going to come?” Desmond had adopted a constant anxious look that made it seem as if he were waiting for Altair to change his mind (suddenly) and declare him a worthless waste of time and space. It knocked his usual calm off kilter and left Altair with the dual feeling of pity and anger. He didn’t know how to make Desmond believe that nothing had changed. (Altair didn’t know how to make himself believe that nothing had changed.)

“Yeah,” Altair said. “Thanks for letting me sleep on your couch.” He pulled his shirt on and dug around in his bag for the hair band that he used to keep the long drape of his hair out of his face while he ran. “Sorry about Ashley. I wasn’t going to bring her and then I did.”

Desmond shrugged. “Doesn’t look like she stole anything. No worries.”

Right. Altair grabbed his wallet and his keys and followed Desmond out of the apartment.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Me [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Spare me the speech, Sass. I’ve got a challenge for you. See, you’ve had it really easy because everything I do is reported by a dozen worthless websites and spread around gossip rags like there’s nothing more important happening in the world. My wealth and accessibility gives you the advantage. So let’s see what you can do with just a picture. 
> 
> Amaze me. List five things I did wrong with no supporting information but this picture. No research. You have to figure it out based on what you know of me and what you see. If you get it right, I’ll congratulate YOU. If you get it wrong—actually getting something wrong seems like the sort of thing that would make you miserable all on its own. 
> 
> What do you say?

Malik had not started his website to end up playing games with Altair. In fact, he had started his website because he detested the man. So getting photographs along with challenges in between his classes left him with an interesting conundrum. 

Hunger had a way of making someone sort out their priorities. (And while his Mother probably hadn’t intended for him to spend hours of his day working out how he really felt about his mission to publicly criticize the guy who took his virginity, it was amazing how that was what often interrupted his attempts at other meditations.) Malik needed money. His whole life had been spent needing more money. Their family had scraped by well enough because his Mother had a good job with decent pay that afforded them a house in a nice enough neighborhood. It kept food in their bellies and clothes on their back but the quality and quantity of those things were often lacking in comparison to others.

Malik had, in his grasp, the opportunity and means to make more money. If he called the lawyer, secured his anonymity and then set up a website independent of the free blog he currently had—he could get money. If he took Altair up on this game, it was almost _certain_ that it would not be the last time he was ever challenged in such a way.

The more challenges he took part in, the more people would come to his website, the more money he could make. 

Thus, he was caught between money and his (quickly fading) objection to shifting his mission from stalwartly opposing Altair for purely moral reasons. 

It did not help that the picture made deducing the events around it seem so simplistic anyone could have figured it out. Altair was frowning, half-asleep, smeared with lipstick and scratches. He had some woman’s shirt over his shoulder and the imprint of some kind of button pressed into his cheek. At first glance, it was the look of another hung-over morning after an athletic evening of sex all save for the purposefully, aggressively _arrogant_ stare. Altair was not smug and hung-over but pissed-off. 

Malik (was starving) wavered with indecision only a half-minute before he had opened his writing program and started on his answer.

\--

> ### Challenge Accepted #001
> 
> I very cautiously add numbers to the title as I feel that by accepting the challenge thrown down by Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, I am opening myself up to future challenges of the same sort. I like to think that I am a good sport.
> 
> The challenge was: “ _List five things I did wrong with no supporting information but this picture. No research. You have to figure it out based on what you know of me and what you see._ ”
> 
> The picture was: [IMAGE]
> 
> 1\. You are hung over. This alone is not necessarily a problem. Young adults are allowed to (but not encouraged to) imbibe alcohol. One might even say that it’s a relatively integral part of peer bonding and social interaction at your age. However, there is a noticeable difference between enjoying a night of intoxication with friends and a habitual overuse of alcohol. As your recent exploits have shown us, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad you are increasingly fond of drowning yourself in liquor and doing inadvisable things. I was pleased to see that you have not added another permanent regret to your gallery. However, you need to stop now.  
>  2\. You have taken some woman’s shirt. I assume (and hope) that her shirt was left in your care in exchange for her taking yours. Again, sex—even casual sex—is not problematic on its own. (However, it should be noted that drunken casual sex increases the likelihood for the transmission of sexually transmitted infections and pregnancy.) The problem is that you most likely had sex with this woman and were either intentionally or unintentionally rude to her with the express purpose of getting her to leave. Do yourself a favor, Mr. Ibn’La-Ahad and preface all casual sexual encounters with the frank admission that you simply do not want a relationship of any kind.  
>  3\. That is not your bathroom. It also does not look like a hotel bathroom, at least not the sort that you frequent. It is most likely not a woman’s bathroom. (I am judging only by the large number of red-colored bottles visible in the background. All of which reek of marketed masculinity.) I admit that I cannot come up with a reason that you found yourself at a third party’s bathroom but it seems that the logic behind such a choice is probably problematic at some point.  
>  4\. That is a fetching shade of red lipstick you are wearing. Those scratches look sore. I understand that you intended this photograph to be a challenge but you really should wash your face and put something on your new wounds.  
>  5\. Most impressively and most importantly, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad is the fact that this entire photograph and the challenge that you issued to me are a direct attack on _someone_. Your face, while often photographed, has the amazing ability to convey your arrogant hatred of any-and-everyone that views it. We have all seen your  ads. The difference between the expression on your face in this photograph and the one on your face in those ads is _intent_. You are awake enough to have had the time to think about your choice. You were coherent enough in issuing a challenge that you understood the consequences of it. Indeed, the very expression in your eyes is a clear assault on _someone_. I do not know who you are angry with. I do not know why. Regardless of my lack of knowledge, I strongly advise you against waging a war by punishing yourself. 
> 
> How’d I do?

Desmond did not throw the laptop but it was a near thing. He dropped it on the coffee table with enough force that if anyone else were around to see it they might have considered it a throw. He covered his face with both of his hands and mumbled dirty curses into his palms. For a minute, he tried very hard not to think of _anything_ and when that failed, he was left the unfortunate knowledge that he had indeed started (despite his long standing efforts to the contrary) a war. 

There was the very small (but very persistent) hope that Altair would be satisfied with drawing blood. Even if Ezio deserved it less than the majority of his family, there was still the possibility that Altair would quit. While he suffered from the same tenacity that Grandma had employed in every aspect of her life, he also suffered from an inability to maintain concentration on one problem for any length of time.

Yet, there he was, in the picture, glaring at the mirror and the people he knew would see the photograph. There he was: _intentionally_ creating a controversy. 

Desmond sat up and looked at the computer screen. “Oh shit,” he said to it. 

But he’d had his chance (of course) to tell Altair that he wanted nothing from him. He’d had his chance to tell him that there was no purpose in vengeance and there was no justice to be had. He could have told Altair he was fine (just _fine_ ) and that all his wounds were old wounds were healed wounds. 

It’s what he should have done because Desmond had distracted Altair from every single excuse to start a fight he could. He had gone out of his way to prevent a war between Ezio and Altair (more than once) and still, he had not had enough sense to talk Altair out of going after Mama-fucking-Maria.

“Fuck,” Desmond said to the picture. “ _Fuck._ ”

\--

son-of-no-one: 1. Correct, 2. Good guess but she left before I woke up, 3. A half point because I did not ask before I brought my one night stand over, 4. Nitpicky, no points. (1d ago)

Son-of-no-one: 5. How terribly perceptive of you, Sass. As promised, I congratulate you. (1d ago)

Kadar had decided to go through his brother’s stupid social media instead of sneaking into the kitchen and eating his weight in whatever he could get his hands on. He ended up on Altair’s twitter (after going to his video blog and watching the video where he wore a really nice suit to a really bright club and ended up doing body shots with a lady named Ashley while some guy with no ability to hold a camera steady recorded him).

Yeah, the visual of the guy who took Malik’s virginity licking salt off some very attractive half-naked woman’s very nice stomach had given Kadar all manner of conflicting feelings. On one hand, it was a mostly naked woman’s very nice stomach and her breasts barely contained in the petal pink bra that was kind of see-through and on the other hand it was probably morally wrong to get aroused by watching Malik’s celebrity boyfriend licking someone (else). 

After an intermission to attend to the insistent erection that video had given him, he returned to the more lasting problem of how Malik had yet to harness his new popularity. Within the six hours since Malik’s answer to Altair’s challenge, half a dozen of the gossip nonsense sites had thrown up some slap-dash stories about a feud between Altair and his family. Kadar (was very helpful) set about leaving comments on each of the stupid stories mentioning how he had read the story first at Sass Badger’s website. 

Then he found his phone.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> At this point, if you haven’t already called the lawyer and bought a domain name to start your own independent website I officially think less of you.
> 
> I called the lawyer.
> 
> The first thing he said was: YOURE A MAN
> 
> Then he apologized for ten minutes.
> 
> Making a point about the scratches was nitpicky. Maybe he likes that kind of thing.
> 
> I think the fact that he’s not literally covered in sex scratches says otherwise
> 
> This bastard gets laid every time he leaves his house
> 
> Sex-deprivation makes you bitchy.
> 
> I’m trying to figure out how to set up my new website
> 
> There are too many options
> 
> Why are there so many options?
> 
> Creativity. It’s one of those things you don’t have.
> 
> Who is the bitchy one now?

Malik was sitting in the library hiding his phone in his lap with his chin balanced on his palm as he stared blankly at the pages and pages and pages of options for his website. He vetoed anything that was too colorful or too crowded.

Then he thought that (so far as he knew) everyone in the world thought Sass-Badger was a girl. While he felt no obligation to keep them believing that he was actually a woman, he thought that the best bet for him to avoid being discovered (as the man he was) involved continuing to make it easy for people to incorrectly assume his gender. 

Which sent him back to look at web designs that seemed overtly feminine to him. (Then he had to take a minute to wonder why he thought they were feminine and to criticize himself for lumping anything with soft colors, rounded edges of flowers in the sample together and calling them feminine.) This cycle had the benefit of being boring, tedious and unproductive.

Malik was on the verge of slapping his laptop shut and throwing it across the table toward the nearest bookcase when a shadow fell across the table and a body came to a suspicious standstill next to him. He closed his laptop (not violently) and looked up at the nice-looking guy with the freckles that smelled like heaven.

The one guy that had not bothered to notice Malik while he was actually available for sexual favors but waited until Malik had given it up for a month to show up with nagging persistence and a hopeful smile. “Hi,” the man said. (His name was Peter or something.) “You looked like you needed a break.”

The things Malik would be perfectly willing to do with this guy flashed through his mind in such quick succession that his traitorous body made speaking utterly impossible and standing up potentially embarrassing. “Yeah,” he did manage to say.

“Want to get something to eat?”

Yes. “I can’t,” Malik said.

“Oh,” Peter mumbled. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” Malik said far too quickly. “It’s a religious thing. I can’t eat or drink until sundown.”

At which point, Peter’s whole face lit up with sudden understanding. “Oh!” That was far too loud for a library. “What about sex, is that an after sundown thing too?”

Malik wanted to rip this guy’s clothes off with his teeth. (He had come to understand he was attracted to directness. It saved so much time that was wasted with pointless flirting and posturing and pretending that they weren’t all just trying to get laid.) “No, that’s a not at all thing until October fourteenth.”

Peter made a point of glancing at his watch (which hopefully had a date function on it) and then said, “That’s only a few more weeks.”

“Says the man who can have sex with someone else while he waits,” Malik said. He did not stand up (because that was still potentially embarrassing) but dragged his bag up into his lap to put his computer away). “If you’re still interested then, I’m usually at the library this time of day.”

“It’s a date,” Peter said.

\--

son-of-no-one: @FedericotheFirst, @Ms_Cristina_Auditore, congratulations on the baby! (8h ago)

Son-of-no-one: I think I read somewhere that 27% of couples who have a baby in the first eight months after marriage are 80% more likely to get a divorce. (8h ago)

Son-of-no-one: probably a good thing that the Auditores are opposed to divorce. (8h ago)

Son-of-no-one: also probably a good thing @Ms_Cristina_Auditore and @FedericotheFirst are so in love. (8h ago)

BestofThree: Also probably a good thing @son-of-no-one is rich or else nobody would care what he was saying. (4h ago)

“When Desmond texted me to meet him at a playground this is honestly not what I expected to find,” Lucy said. She was still wearing her white buttoned-down shirt and her sturdy-black workpants. Her hair was pulled away from her face in a severe-and-slick ponytail that made her otherwise pretty face look shrewd and hateful. The way she crossed her arms over her chest made her the very picture of disapproving disappointment.

Altair rolled his eyes and threw his suit jacket at her. He was sitting on top of the monkey bars with his legs hanging off the side. He’d already kicked off his shoes (and socks) and left them where they landed. His tie was looped around one of the bars and he’d unbuttoned half the shirt just to relieve the sensation of being choked to death. The whole of his morning had been spent in a stuffy office listening to old men and smart women talk about company business.

(He had spent most of that time planning out which offers to accept to keep himself in the public eye with the most success. There was modelling. There was a dance competition show. There was more acting. There were countless interviews from magazines with a wide variety of credibility.) 

Lucy threw his suit jacket over a bench and then kicked off her own shoes. The sand was only barely warmed by the sun. The coolness of it must have surprised her because she hissed. “Is Desmond actually coming?”

“This is farther away than our usual meeting spot,” Altair said. “Plus he had to bring the camera.” Altair did a handstand with his hands on the side of the monkey bars while Lucy watched from the ground with an unimpressed frown on her face. 

“You couldn’t have picked him up?”

“He likes walking,” Altair countered. “He says it keeps him from getting fat.” Then he concentrated on moving himself from one end of the monkey bars to the other without falling to his death or busting his face open again. It was a relatively easy task to accomplish when he was dangling from them but somewhat more daunting when he was walking on his hands across them.

Lucy made a noise. “He says he’s probably ten minutes away.”

“That gives us plenty of time to talk about him,” Altair said. He tipped himself sideways to fall because he could not figure out how to get down any other way. He landed in the sand on his side and Lucy clapped for him. 

“I can’t tell if you’re serious.” Lucy climbed up the rungs of the ladder on the monkey bars and then pulled herself up so she was standing on the top. Her bare feet were skinny and pale as she balanced on one side of the bars and crossed them on her tip-toes. “But if you’re offering to talk trash about your cousin, how about you tell me about his ex-girlfriends?”

“Ha,” Altair said. He got up and grabbed the side of the monkey bars to pull himself up to stand on the opposite side of them as Lucy. “Desmond doesn’t date anyone. I only just found out he wasn’t a virgin. I mean—I think he dated a few girls when he was a teenager. I remember this one girl that was always around when I was like sixteen.” 

“Yeah, that’s great. Just tell me the secret to getting him to realize I want to fuck him.” Lucy had her hands on her hips when she said it. 

Altair laughed so hard he fell backward off the monkey bars (again) and Lucy did nothing but step gingerly to the side where she could see him better. “Have you tried just asking him for sex?”

“No. I was going to but then he just seemed like he needed a friend. So I thought, if he needs a friend then I can be his friend. Which is great because Desmond is the nicest guy I’ve ever met but at the same time I’m being emotionally supportive, I still want to dig my nails into his back while he fucks me. I thought maybe I wasn’t his type physically. Maybe he likes tanned girls. Or maybe he likes dark haired girls. Then sometimes he looks at me like all he sees is a collection of attractive body parts—”

“He likes your breasts. He stares at them a lot.”

“—so I’m constantly thinking you know, maybe he’ll discover I’m fuckable on his own. I’m dying, Altair. I’m dying of repressed sexual urges.”

That was simply not something Altair could relate to. He sat up and shook the sand out of his hair. “Desmond likes you,” he said. “He’s never going to think you’re fuckable. That’s just not who he is. I mean, it’s possible he’ll realize he’s in love with you and you can have sex with him. But you’re not some woman he can fuck. You’re a woman that he likes, that he’s friends with.”

“So I’m stuck in the God-damned friend zone?” Lucy said. She jumped down and landed on her butt. 

“Uh,” Altair said. She just looked so disappointed by the realization. “Yes. The good news is that you can’t really ask for a better friend.” Her glare was not pleased by his attempts at reassurance. Absent him coming up with some way to make Desmond realize that she was in love with him and absolutely wanted to get him naked (which Altair had been trying to do for a while), Altair could do nothing. So he said, “should I do more modelling or attempt to dance on public TV?”

“Can you dance?” Lucy asked.

“I can learn to dance.”

“People do like laughing at you,” Lucy said. “Of course, you have a whole new group of fans who have been masturbating to your glaring face. So they would probably appreciate some new material for their fantasies. What is it about arrogant assholes that attracts women? Who looks at someone like you and thinks ‘what a great lover this condescending asshole would be’?” 

Altair shrugged. “I thought people slept with me for the money.”

“That’s also sad,” Lucy said. Whatever else she might have said was interrupted when Desmond finally showed up. He came with the camera and casual clothes. Lucy fell back into the sand and looked up at him. “Save me from this idiot.”

“Sorry,” Desmond said. “No can do.”

\--

> ### Communication Error
> 
> This one is short and simple:
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  It might not yet have occurred to you (as an adult) but there are many avenues available for conflict resolution. I do not know which member of your family has angered you in such a way as to necessitate this constant, petty behavior but you are dangerously close to crossing a line that should not be crossed. Many families prefer to confront one another in a private setting. Many have found success in expressing themselves through meaningful words. Amazingly, having an intelligent conversation about what is troubling you is often the best course of action. What you are doing, while sadly in character, is childish.  
>  To be perfectly blunt:  
>  If you agree to attend a function, you should show up.  
>  If you disagree with a private choice made by a family member, disapprove of it privately.  
>  If you have nothing kind to say, say nothing at all.
> 
> Thank you,  
>  Sass-Badger.

“Did you get an invitation to the christening?” Altair asked. He invited himself over to Desmond’s apartment but he brought coffee so it was not an entirely unreasonable interruption of his life. 

“It’s too soon,” Desmond said. He took a sip of his coffee and picked up the second controller off the table to offer it to Altair and was denied. “The baby was just born two days ago.”

“Considering the fact that Mama Maria managed to bully her way into having a shotgun wedding despite Federico and Cristina failing to complete all the pre-marriage bullshit the parish requires, you’d think they would have been on top of having this baptism planned.” He had his phone out and was scrolling through something on it with a slanted frown across his face. “You think Ezio is going to be the godfather?”

Yes. There was almost nobody else that Federico would even consider. “That will be great content for his show. Everyone loves watching babies get baptized. Especially Italian babies of families supposedly connected to the mob.”

“I’m not going,” Altair said. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and got to his feet. “I just came by to give you coffee. I’ve got to meet some people about doing this dancing with stupid celebrities show.”

“Mama Maria isn’t going to let us just _not_ go to the christening,” Desmond said. There weren’t a lot of things that Desmond couldn’t talk his way out of (or just politely decline) but weddings, christenings and funerals were on a short list. Not to mention, Altair’s public feud would put undue attention on Mama Maria’s _happy_ family. If he didn’t show up it would be an unforgiveable embarrassment.

Oh-and-Altair’s expression was cold with murder. “Mama Maria is going to _let_ us do whatever we want.” But then, “Wish me luck.” He was already on his way to the door so wishing him luck seemed redundant. 

\--

>   
> **Malik**  
> 
> 
> Why are there so many fucking shades of gray?
> 
> Who needs this many shades of any color?
> 
> I don’t like a blank background but I can’t find a texture I like.
> 
> I haven’t figured out what kind of advertisement I want on the site.
> 
> I don’t have a name for it
> 
> I don’t have a logo!
> 
> I have nothing. I have absolutely nothing.
> 
> Websites are the stupidest thing in the world. Who’s damn idea was this?
> 
> Do I need a fixed width for this column?
> 
> I don’t even know what that means.
> 
> What fucking font do I want to use?
> 
> Why are there so many different fonts?
> 
> It is three in the morning.
> 
> I just need to know if this font makes it look more like I’m a guy than the other one.
> 
> I just—if Altair is going to keep sending me photographs I have to make sure the blog is set up that it looks good with the photographs.
> 
> You should probably also have a sidebar that shows recent pictures
> 
> To counteract your TL;dr
> 
> I could probably use the letters that Leonardo made for me to make a logo.
> 
> You should set up a special inbox for signed photos
> 
> What?
> 
> Have you been to sleep yet?
> 
> No.
> 
> I’ve been trying to figure out what fucking website I want.
> 
> I’ve been staring at code.
> 
> I’ve been trying to figure out what kind of gray I like.
> 
> Ok. Shut up. Send me what you have so far and give me access to your page
> 
> Then masturbate to that video of Altair doing parkour at the playground with his shirt mostly unbuttoned.
> 
> find something to eat. Go to sleep.
> 
> I am insulted you think I would do.
> 
> Eat?
> 
> Masturbate thinking about Altair.
> 
> You probably get a hard on every time he mentions your fake name
> 
> Did he ever actually know your name?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Did he moan it lovingly in your ear while you had sex?
> 
> I hate everything you stand for.

That did not, however, stop Malik from sending him the information he asked for. Kadar abandoned his bed, went to raid the kitchen for as much food as he could possibly eat before dawn and took the spread out to the dining room table that nobody ever used. He had to go back upstairs to get the power cord for his laptop and his blanket to wrap himself up in. 

Malik’s primary problem was his perfectionism. He absolutely could not convince himself that he was allowed to be unsure about anything. He had no patience with his own indecision and he could not accept anything less than absolutely the best possible answer. His secondary problem was that he had a limited ability to use his brain creatively. 

That was all well and good when he needed cold-hard-facts for school but it was somewhat more problematic when trying to work out what sort of website fake-woman-Sass-Badger might create. 

Kadar groaned at the mess of bland stupidity that Malik had come up with. “It’s like you want everyone to hate you,” he said to the screen. Then he set about fixing the disaster. (But the first then he did was to make sure he always had administrative access to the stupid website. _Just in case_ it was ever relevant.)

\--

son-of-no-one: if you liked my last set of artful semi-nakedness, boy are you in for a treat. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: let’s hope this photographer also wants to fuck me, huh? (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: since the last guy did such a fabulous job objectifying me. (2h ago)

Lucy slapped him when she joined them in the park. Her work shirt was pulled up out of the waistband of a pair of unattractive sweats. Her hair was in a loose ponytail and she had a jacket she was shrugging up onto her shoulders. “You’re a dick,” she said.

Altair did not deny it.

“Why are you being a dick?” she asked. “I’m not asking because I want to criticize you or tell you what to do. I’m asking because every time you’re a dick, Desmond gets this look on his face. I can’t even tell you what the look is.” It was the look of lingering fear (of repercussions) and guilt.

“I’m correcting something. I’m not going to stop. It’s going to get a lot uglier than this before it starts to get better. So if you want out, now is the time to go.” Altair hadn’t attracted any new paparazzi to document his every move but there was a certain amount of inevitability about that. He was signed up to do that stupid TV show and he had at least one more modelling gig. Apparently the scar on his face made his feral hostility even more attractive. The more his face was out there, the more people wanted to see it, the more people would be following him with cameras.

Lucy had two hands on her slim hips and a sneer on her face. “They did something to Desmond.” It was amazing how it wasn’t a question, how certain she was when she said it. Just as amazing was the livid-pink-hatred on her cheeks. 

Altair didn’t say anything but nod. Even that seemed like too much to give away. “They won’t touch him though. They’ll come after me.”

“How can you be sure?” Lucy asked. “Seems like he’s where they would hit if they wanted to hurt you.”

“Because I will light their fucking house on fire,” Altair said. “And they _know_ it.” That much was evident in the polite side-stepping of the issue Mama Maria had managed in all this time. Giovanni had declined to comment when asked. Ezio hadn’t sent Altair as much as a single text message since he didn’t show up at the fundraiser. They were all hiding in the war room building strategies about how to stop him. 

Desmond was an obvious weakness; but Ezio was his most important ally. 

Desmond found them with a curious, concerned tip of his head. Both of his fists in his pockets and a half-grin on his face. “I’m not saying that you should care what I think but I am saying that you two should never have sex.”

“What?” Lucy demanded.

“Most people that look at him like that want to have sex with him,” Desmond said.

“Well, she’s hot,” Altair said. He looked her over and Lucy slapped him again for the offense. “You are. I would have sex with you.”

“I’m sorry, I prefer not to have sex with slutty assholes.” Then she purposefully took a step toward Desmond as she shook her head in disgust over the very notion of getting naked with him. (Never mind the fact that Desmond could almost be his twin, both from the similarities of their faces and the build of their bodies.)

“Yeah,” Desmond said. He was frowning. “Are we going to run?”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> So I fixed it.
> 
> You’re welcome.
> 
> Write yourself a damn FAQs page.
> 
> I didn’t know you knew how to make webpages
> 
> I didn’t before. I do now.
> 
> You owe me. Money. Specifically. Some portion of whatever you make.
> 
> In return, I’ll make sure your website keeps working.
> 
> Ha.
> 
> This actually looks really nice.
> 
> Don’t act so surprised.
> 
> Now I’m going to go masturbate to thoughts of the hot girl in the parkour video and sleep.
> 
> You preoccupation with that video is alarming

The website was not gray (the way it had been whenever he sent the information to his brother) but a soft-muted kind of green. There was a subtle geometric pattern to it that helped it seem less bland without drawing any kind of attention to it at all. The header across the top was his signature (Sass Badger) edited together out of the letters Leonardo had made for him. Just beneath that was a quick set of links that appeared as darker shade of the same green except when the mouse hovered over them. There were bright-pink drop-down menus to choose from that directed people to various features on the website. The last of which was simply ‘FAQs’ that led to an empty page. 

The main content was on the left side of the screen with a box featuring ‘recent photos’ on the right side, a calendar offering the titles of the most recent problems and below that a series of advertisements in small squares. Whenever Malik hovered over the thumbnails for the pictures they rotated half way to the side and the space behind them turned that bright pink.

It was most definitely not something he would have made. It was not without room for improvement but it was somewhat better than the one he currently had. Malik clicked through the whole thing and when he was satisfied, opened the page where the FAQs were meant to go. 

\--

> ### FAQs: Frequently Asked Questions (and the answers)
> 
> 1\. Who are you?  
>  I am a legal adult in my country of residence. I am a human being. I am consciously anonymous. 
> 
> 2\. Why won’t you tell us who you are?  
>  I do not wish to share any details about who I am, where I live or what I do outside of this website because, in my experience, the internet demands you provide credentials to make your opinion matter. Rather than engage in this pointless attempt to prove my worth as a person by listing my specifics, I prefer to allow my opinion to stand on its own merit.
> 
> 3\. What is your problem with Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad?  
>  My specific problem with him is his continued socially irresponsible behavior. I like to think that he is capable of learning. I also choose to believe that he wants to learn considering his frequent participation on this website. 
> 
> More FAQs to come when relevant.

Altair was fresh out of a bath (and relaxed) when he checked the Sett(‘s new homepage) for any updates. He wasn’t sure how he felt about the website but he was pleased to see Sass had finally gotten around to upgrading to her own domain name. It seemed like the sort of thing that someone should say something about.

\--

son-of-no-one: Sass, your opinion is worth its weight in gold. (1d ago)

Son-of-no-one: can’t wait to hear what you have to say about me tomorrow. (1d ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, what did you do? (1d ago)

Im-not-drunk: @shirley-Templar, well what he didn’t do was show up at Church. (1h ago)

BestofThree: @son-of-no-one, Seems like your internet friend would have something to say about neglecting your familial obligations. (30m ago)

BestofThree: @son-of-no-one, seems like someone should remind you what family means. (30m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, seems to me that someone should not use words they don’t understand. (25m ago)

Desmond took the precaution of turning his phone off. It was not that he was afraid of the backlash of this very public embarrassment but that he simply could not deal with it.

So he didn’t. He pushed his phone (silent and powerless) into his pocket and left his apartment. He didn’t think (not-at-all) about how his Father had to be somewhere soaking all of this bullshit up and getting fat on the idea that Desmond was vulnerable now. (Because his _father_ had always known like a shark scenting blood, exactly when to _strike_ and where to apply pressure.) Even if his Father didn’t come after him (which he almost certainly would), there was no way Federico fucking Auditore was going to let this humiliating sequence of events go.

By the time Desmond got to the coffee shop (he wasn’t even aware he was going to), his hands were shaking where they were stuffed into his pockets. His whole body felt inconstant and shivery. His voice was dried up in his throat. He was thinking (thinking-thinking) dozens and dozens and _dozens_ of things like memories popping in the space between his ears. A smile was stuck on his face because _this family smiled_ and _we-are-a-_ happy _-family_. 

Amy was at the register looking dour and unhappy about having to work on one of the last warm days of the year. Lucy was making someone’s order behind the monstrosity of a counter. “Are you okay?” Amy asked. (Not at all quietly.)

Desmond nodded and pulled his hand out of his pocket to motion up at the board the same way he had done for months-and-months now. But Amy was staring-just-staring at his face with an etched-in-look of disbelief. She didn’t hit the buttons on her register but turn her head to the side and say, “hey, _Lucy_.”

Lucy said, “just a minute,” because she was finishing up the order before his and there were more people standing behind him. There was a line forming and the implied pressure of so many people watching him was very-nearly-overwhelming.

He just shook his head at Amy (because he didn’t want coffee that bad) and nodded back toward the door (because he was leaving) before he excused himself out of the line and headed for the door. He made it too, out of the building crowded with people and onto the sidewalk choked with exhaust fumes. He was free-and-clear and trying to breath with his head down (chin-to-chest) and his shoulders hunched against nothing. 

“Hey!” Lucy shouted just seconds before the sound of her standard-work-shoes came to a wobbling stop at his side. Her hands caught him by the jacket and Desmond yanked away from her so fast they were both nearly thrown sideways. Her hands stayed up at the sides and her expression was some soft horror. “Hey,” she said again (but quieter, so much _quieter_. Don’t scare the skittish horses). 

Desmond couldn’t have said anything to her even if he wanted to. (What would he say anyway? What could he tell her? Nothing-nothing- _nothing_.) He swallowed the thickness in his throat and pulled one of his hands out of his pocket to point approximately forward. He was _going_ in that _direction_ and he was fine.

“Desmond,” she said. She shuffled a half-step forward and he knew what she meant to do even before her fingertips touched at his sleeves. He knew and he didn’t _want_ her to touch him but her fingertips were tip-toeing around the backs of his arms as her body moved in closer to his. The imminent threat made his skin crawl in aversion at the same time he felt helpless in _need_ of a hug. 

“I’m fine,” he forced out of his throat. 

Lucy nodded because sure-she-believed-that. Then she was up on the balls of her feet with her arms around his shoulders and her face pressed against his. “Hug me,” she said, “because I need you to.”

That was an obvious lie but he put his arms around her. He meant to pat her back and pull away but he was crushing her against his chest with both of his arms wrapped hard around her slim body. Her voice was mumbling something reassuring to him that he couldn’t make out because he was pressing his face against her shoulder. She smelled like body soap and _coffee_. He was a mess (shaking apart at the seams) and she felt like the last sturdy thing in the world.

“I’m calling Altair,” she said. “You aren’t leaving until he gets here.” She tipped back just far enough to look at his face. Her thumb ran across his cheek as she bit her lips. “I won’t ask anything you don’t want to tell me but please know that I’m here if you want to.” Then her arm slid under his arm, around his back as she pulled him toward the outside tables and deposited him into a chair there. She stood guard over him (valiant and tall and brave) even as she pulled her phone out of her pocket. 

“I’m not okay,” he said before she could call Altair. Looking up at her, it seemed like an important thing to admit. (If only to her, if only to himself.) “I just destroyed my family.”

Lucy looked so _sad_. “No, you didn’t. I’m here. _Altair_ will be here. Anyone else? Anyone that is capable of doing this,” she motioned at him, “is not your family.” Then she hit the call button on her phone and held it up to her ear. Her free hand rested against his shoulder as she glared at the few people that were unfortunate enough to pass by them. “Hey,” she said when the phone picked up. “Get your ass to the coffee shop.”


	22. Chapter 22

> **Claudia**
> 
> What is your problem?
> 
> Are you ignoring me?
> 
> Not only have you managed to display your lack of maturity to the entire world. You have, at last, managed to prove that regardless of your many claims to the contrary you are now, and will always be, a baby.

But that wasn’t even the best one because there was also:

> **Federico**
> 
> What the fuck is your problem, dickface?
> 
> Have you not already caused enough embarrassment in your life?
> 
> Do you simply enjoy being laughed at?
> 
> Do not speak to or about me, my wife or my son.
> 
> Money will not save you if you do.

But, by far, the one that Altair liked the best was the simplest one. The one that he got in the middle of the night, a day and a half after he failed to show up for the christening that he (never officially) said he was going to.

> **Ezio**
> 
> Fuck, Altair. Just. Fuck.

Altair didn’t bother worrying about the others. Claudia possessed the same temper of her brothers along with the calculated coldness of her mother. While she was raging about a perceived threat to her family, Altair wasn’t ready to address her yet. Ezio, however, was one lone man who knew the cause of this feud and he was behind enemy lines (so to speak) with a promise to keep. It was an unenviable position.

Altair wanted to say something to him. To try to remind him of the importance of the mission or to express support for the difficult position Ezio inevitably found himself in and yet there were no words that could make it from the center of his brain. He was mute and unhappy, staring at the message long after the time for a reply had passed.

\--

son-of-no-one: almost threw my dance partner. She’s not a feather either. Guess I don’t know my own strength. (1m ago)

“What stupid thing are you smiling at now?” Lucy had not moved in with him but it was a very near thing. While she didn’t (always) sleep over in his spare room, she had enough of her clothing at his house that it was a generally reliable expectation to find some of her dirty things in his hamper when it came time to do laundry. She’d also set up the coffee pot and brought groceries for making breakfast. (Desmond knew, as well as anyone knew, that she had come because Altair had convinced her Desmond was not to be left unattended.) At that exact minute she had him sitting on a cushion on the floor while she sat on the couch behind him so she could color in the gaps in his new tattoo. There was a spread of kid’s markers on the table that he handed back to her when she asked. One of her bare legs was under his arm as she leaned over to concentrate.

“Altair is injuring his dance partner already,” Desmond said. He turned his head to look at his shoulder and nearly bumped foreheads with Lucy. “How’s it looking?”

This was not the first time that Lucy had colored in the spaces of his tattoo. They were a variety of geometric shapes starting at the round part of his shoulder and spreading out down his arm and up toward his collar. While it wasn’t an impressively large tattoo (and he honestly could not figure out why he would have gotten it even if drunk) it seemed to provide enough entertainment to be considered something slightly better than useless. 

Lucy smiled. It was her day off so she wore no make-up at all. The neutral color of her lips was only a few shades different from her pale skin. So close to her nose he could see the few little blemishes that she normally hid with foundation. “I like it. Why doesn’t Altair know how to dance? Isn’t that something rich society people do?”

“Altair does know how to dance,” Desmond said. He looked forward again because the muggy space between his shoulder and their two faces was very close and he a(n un)fortunate view down the gaping neckline of Lucy’s shirt. “Or he was taught how to dance and can waltz with older ladies who have been convinced to donate money to Mama Maria’s foundations. He was like a sideshow attraction when he was nine or ten because he was chubby—”

“It’s no longer chubby when you are actually round,” Lucy interjected.

“—And young but he knew how to dance reasonably well. Grandma started the tradition but Mama Maria made it mandatory. When he got tall, it was less cute but he knows how to dance.”

Lucy blew across the section she just finished coloring to dry it and then sat up. She handed him the marker (a blue one) and took a moment to consider her handiwork. “What about you? Did you learn how to dance?”

“Ha,” Desmond said. His father was not a refined gentleman raised in the high lights of fine society. William was a lucky bastard who happened to be the unwanted lovechild of an asshole who never learned how to use a condom. The fact that William had been positively identified as one of the DeCort heirs was possibly the worst twist of fate the man ever suffered. When offered his share of the inheritance that Grandma had put aside for the love children, William had been consumed by greed. (Even as insane and dramatic as that sounded, it did not compare to his father’s rampant, rabid need for _more_.) “No. I never went to the dinners and balls and galas. Ezio tried to teach me one year but he wouldn’t let me lead so I only ever learned how to be pushed around by my bullying cousin.”

“Ezio sounds like a jerk. Are all of your cousins jerks?”

Desmond snorted. “Ezio isn’t a jerk. No, Ezio is jerk. But he was raised to be a jerk. He’s spoiled, well-cared for, well-protected and so on. Everything he’s ever wanted in life he has gotten through stalwart determination and his stupidly handsome face. But he’s also really loyal and really kind-hearted.”

“None of that matters when you’re a jerk. Altair is a jerk but I like him because he knows that he’s an asshole. He embraces it. I can tolerate something like that from someone that’s honest about it.”

That was possibly the first time anyone had sided with Altair over Ezio in all of Desmond’s life. People didn’t like Altair. Altair didn’t like most people. Ezio loved people. People loved Ezio. This was the natural order of life. “There is that, at least.”

Lucy pulled at his hair and her fingertips slid along his scalp all cool-and-slim. “You need a haircut.” But it was only an idle observation before she was leaning to the side to pick up another marker. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Malik!
> 
> You do realize that it’s useless to shout my name in text?
> 
> I met a girl.
> 
> Congratulations, you have discovered females. Again.
> 
> No, shut up. Listen.
> 
> I met a Muslim girl. Her name is Amina. She was in the library when I went to cry about not getting pizza
> 
> So we were talking about how hard it is to ‘stay faithful’
> 
> She obviously cares about Ramadan a lot more than I do
> 
> But she is so pretty, Malik. I’ve met her in the library every day this week.
> 
> Kadar.
> 
> You cannot be meeting this girl by yourself.
> 
> There’s a librarian. A nosy one that stares at us. Protecting us from sin and temptation.
> 
> She’s really smart, Malik. She’s smart and she’s funny and she’s beautiful
> 
> And she speaks Arabic
> 
> Stop. Stop immediately.
> 
> This is not at all the reaction I expected.
> 
> I’m really glad you found a girl that you like.
> 
> I hope that you continue to like her.
> 
> But you are impulsive and stupid and mostly American. 
> 
> I don’t want you not to like the girl or not to see her but there are rules. You need to talk to Mom.
> 
> I’m not stupid.
> 
> I just want to be friends for more than five days before I get parents involved
> 
> Once Mom knows, it’s like I’m asking her to assess this girl for future wife material
> 
> It’s not “like” anything, you dumb ass.
> 
> That’s exactly what it is.
> 
> Dating is specifically meant to lead to marriage.
> 
> How come you get to have sex with whoever you want?
> 
> Why don’t you have to have chaperoned dates and assess the jerks you sleep with for husband material?
> 
> Because I’m already going to hell.
> 
> You need to talk to this girl about her family’s expectations for her and their views on dating. You need to talk to Mom before you do something accidentally stupid.
> 
> Fine.
> 
> Also don’t give her any goats or chickens until you are really sure.
> 
> I hate everything about you.
> 
> choke on a dick and die

Kadar was somewhat less excited to go to the library on Friday but he found his way there all the same. He had not encountered a great number of other Muslim students at school. For a combination of reasons, he found himself thrown in with a bunch of Christian kids who were delighted in December and happy in spring and spent most of their time talking about the wonderful things they got every time a religious holiday rolled around. His first “girlfriend” had been Christian (and beautiful and so very, very, very tempting) but that had ended in disaster. 

Malik wasn’t wrong and that was the most annoying thing about him. For a man who didn’t believe in any religion and subverted all of the laws of the one he grew up with, he was a pest about following them. Kadar had suffered through the lecture on dating as soon as he started going through puberty. (Technically, he suffered through it twice since he also sat and listened to it when Mother gave it to Malik. What a waste of everyone’s time that had been.) He had been working over his deep attraction toward women ever since he discovered sex existed and the fact that his life was filled with attractive girls made him nearly crazy. 

Amina was reading when he sat across the table from her. The librarian was giving them a critical eye but decided they weren’t going to cause trouble and went back to checking in books. Even if Ms. Smith was not looking at them she still counted as some manner of chaperone. 

“Hi,” Kadar said. He put his phone on the table and covered it with his hands. There were a lot of things he should ask her. But she smiled at him (shy and sweet-faced) as she toyed with the long ends of her hajib. 

“Hello,” she said. “How did your English homework go?”

Kadar shrugged. “I finished it. What about you?”

“I’m finished it,” she repeated. “Are you excited about Ramadan ending? You said you were struggling.”

Yes. He was gorge himself all day on Sunday when Ramadan was officially over and he wasn’t going to think about anything more complex than how to operate the stove to make more food to shove into his face. When he was sick from the effort he was going to lay around and look up trash on the internet and not feel even slightly bad about it either. Kadar nodded. “I like eating,” he said. “I’m not always sure about what I believe.” That was an admission he didn’t feel like he meant to share. “My brother isn’t really religious. My Mom really is.”

Amina looked sympathetic. “You’ll figure it out. We can talk about if you like.”

Kadar smiled and it felt nervous and fluttery. “Uh, maybe. Just not today. What are you reading?” Because he just wanted to listen to her talk and watch her face as she got excited about something. He wanted to take the time to memorize all these things about her and try to remember what his life was like before he met her.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I appreciate frankness, Sass. Let me respond with some: I did not make the decision to start a website to criticize a stranger for the things that he chose to do with his own life. I did not decide to make money off my condescending disapproval of one sole sort-of-celebrity whose greatest accomplishment in life is being born with rich relatives. Furthermore, I did not persist in my constant, hypocritical disapproval long after any normal person might have moved onto a more interesting and troublesome individual. As I did not make any of the decisions that led us to this moment, I cannot offer you more than this bit of wisdom:
> 
> Do whatever you feel is right. Regardless of what you do, I will keep doing what I do. 
> 
> > _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  >Altair,  
>  >  
>  >Let me be frank, I don’t want to be an instrument of your vengeance. I do not appreciate you  
>  >using me and my website as part of your crusade against an enemy whose sins I could not  
>  >name. Stop.  
>  >  
>  >> _Altair Ibn-La’Ahad wrote_ :  
>  >>Here’s another one for you, Sass. Five things wrong with the following photograph  
>  >>and absolutely no hints.  
> 

Leonardo showed up at his dorm with no warning. He came with a scruff growth of hair on his face, paint stains still on his hands and his hair pulled away from his face by a bright red hairband. He was smiling in the way that he often did as he waited to be invited in. Time away from one another had helped to dull Malik’s memory of how tall Leonardo really was and how his body smelled constantly like graphite and old paper. 

“You’ve been on the internet again,” Leonardo said. “I know that expression.” He looked around the dorm room (that looked exactly like all other dorm rooms) and nodded his approval. 

“Yeah,” Malik agreed. He slapped the laptop shut to hide the e-mail that he’d spent a good hour staring at in alternating waves of rage and guilt. “I didn’t know you were—”

“That was the idea. I remembered that you said you were observing Ramadan this year because your mother strongly hinted that she wanted you to do so.” Leonardo sat on the bed and bounced like he was testing it for structural soundness. “So I thought I’d come and take you out to a buffet or something. Have sex a few times and drive back home tomorrow.”

But there was still that e-mail to deal with and the picture that he hadn’t addressed. The whole frustrating matter of being scolded by a jerk like Altair who had every possible advantage and was waging a blood feud against his own family for some unknown reason. Malik rubbed the back of his neck and tried to think with his gut (woefully empty) and his dick (woefully ignored) but the feeling of unresolved tension persisted.

Leonardo rolled his eyes. “ _Malik_ ,” he said. “You can tell me all about what the internet has done to you while we eat. I have a hotel room where we can have filthy, repetitive sex. I promise to rob you of your ability to walk or worry before I leave you in peace.” It was amazing how he could say those kinds of things so casually and so freely. (More amazing that both were true.) 

Malik sighed. He nodded. “But I’m bringing my computer.” 

“Great.” Then Leonardo was up again. “You might also bring some clean clothes. Perhaps a coat.” 

\--

>   
> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> Is the photographer gay?
> 
> No I think he’s straight
> 
> Still told me I had a nice ass though
> 
> Unfortunately, you really do have a nice ass.
> 
> All in all you look really good in jeans.
> 
> Is something wrong?
> 
> No. I was bored at work and Desmond is sleeping still.
> 
> Make up lady liked my scar.
> 
> Did you have sex with her?
> 
> No. The ring on her finger leads me to believe she is married.
> 
> Yeah. Don’t sleep with married women.
> 
> Break’s over. Back to work. Be sure to think about your idiot family while getting your picture taken. Remember chicks dig guys who hate everything.

Altair did not have to try very hard to summon up enough venomous thoughts to stare hatefully at the camera. Every part of his body felt as if it were filled with aggression and it must have shown on his face because everyone was avoiding him when it wasn’t technically necessary for them to be near him.

Even the photographer (who had been friendly at the start) had fallen into short sentences and general avoidance of him. 

It had been two days since he sent the picture to Sass. There had been no posts to the Sett in that time. (Of course, it was only barely Monday now.) There had been no new messages from Ezio. Desmond persisted in a state of numb acceptance that he insisted was _fine_ but looked a great deal less than fine. 

There was no part of him that wasn’t overwhelmed with anger. Absent a convenient target or immediate realization of his plan, Altair simply clenched his teeth and reminded himself about the virtues of patience.

\--

> ### Challenge Accepted #002
> 
> I did say that I was opening myself up to future challenges. Given what we all know about Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad (that is to say, he is chronically starved for the attention he so feels he deserves), it should not even surprise me that I have been given another photograph. 
> 
> [IMAGE: Altair sitting (shirtless) in front of a coffee table littered with a variety of debris. A pad of paper is lying face up under his right hand that is spread across the words. There is a noticeable bruise on one of his shoulders. Behind him there is a couch with a blanket and pillow on it and a pair of panties poorly concealed between the cushions. In Altair’s fingers there is an RSVP card with the details blurred out. On the bottom there are words written in Italian. Altair is staring into the camera with open hostility.]
> 
> 1\. You are petty. That is why you are making your private rejection of your cousin’s invitation public. Whatever you have scribbled on the bottom of that card should not have been seen by anyone but the people for which your message was intended. Not only have you hurt the feelings of your own family (for reasons unknown) you have gone so far as to usurp a day that is meant to be dedicated to a child that is no more than four weeks old. Congratulations, you are more of an asshole now than you have ever been before.  
>  2\. You are careless. Bruises such as the one over the bony prominence of your left are evidence enough that you cannot be bothered to harbor enough care for yourself that you act rashly and impulsively regardless of the consequences.  
>  3\. You are mean-spirited. More importantly, you want _everyone_ to know how mean you can truly be. For a man who not even nine full months ago was protesting the innocence of his cousin’s marriage to every available source your sudden _persistent_ attacks against it seem hypocritical. They seem almost threatening as if your sole intention was to let someone know that you have no intention of stopping.  
>  4\. You are arrogant. The placement of the panties stuffed into the couch of this picture reeks of intention. Your sexual exploits and conquests have been long-documented by the media. Not only are you denouncing your cousin’s marriage, insulting his child but you are simultaneously flaunting your own blithe attitude toward sex. You might as well written a sign proclaiming: ‘I have sex’ and put it around your neck. While you are busy congratulating yourself on the revolving-door quality of your sexual conquests take a moment to remember that not everyone in the world agrees with you. Then consider that even if you have managed to convince a woman that you were worth the time it takes to get naked that absent those lost six minutes of her life, she may not like seeing her panties displayed as a means of proving what a stud you think yourself to be.  
>  5\. Your handwriting is painfully awful. 

Leonardo was warm and naked and sleeping on the bed next to Malik while he sat cross-legged and glaring at the computer. He wasn’t _satisfied_ by the post but he wasn’t unsatisfied either. It was a representation of his feelings but it was hobbled by the fact that he knew the cousin’s wedding was a sham. The deficit of information regarding the cause of Altair’s sudden need for vengeance left him with a confusion of anger.

On one hand, Malik wanted to believe the prick wouldn’t start a blood feud over something stupid. Altair had become notorious for frowning before he left the Auditore family home a few months ago but this nonsense hadn’t started until he flew back out to punch one of them in the face. Whatever had pissed him off obviously had not happened while he was still at the family home. (Well, in theory it could have and he simply could not contain his need for violence another moment.) 

On the other hand, Altair pissed him off and was acting in a purposefully irresponsible (if an apparently thought-out and intentional) manner. Whatever his end game was, the methods he was using to reach it were made of dubious moral fiber (at best).

“I have not done my job properly,” Leonardo said. He was half asleep when he said it, summoned out of sleep by the light coming from the laptop (or something else maybe). His eyes were squinting into the dreary light and then up at Malik. “Close the laptop.”

“You did your job well,” Malik said. He closed the laptop and set it in the drawer on the stand by the bed. 

Leonardo got up and went to the bathroom. When he came back he flicked on one of the lights mounted to the wall over the bed and flopped lazily to sit facing Malik on his side of the bed. “Do not sell me useless compliments, Malik. If I had done a proper job, you would still be sleeping. What’s wrong? Is it something you can talk about?”

“No,” Malik said instead of trying to figure out a way to express his frustration at the situation without giving himself away. He leaned back against the headboard and shrugged. “I think I got myself into something that’s a lot bigger than I intended it to be. Sometimes, I think, if I were smart I’d get out.”

“Why don’t you?” Leonardo asked. He had the pen from the hotel desk in his hand as he rubbed his thumb over the bone of Malik’s ankle. After a moment of pause he started drawing. It looked like scribbles: just an odd collection of lines snaking up and around his leg. 

“I don’t want out.” That was the trouble. Malik was enjoying himself despite the many reasons he shouldn’t. Altair’s rebuttal had infuriated him but it wasn’t wrong. From any perspective but his own, Malik’s mission against the man was just as petty as Altair’s quest to hurt his own family. Absent the knowledge that he had about what had happened in that hotel room on prom night (and the fact that Altair was actually an awful person about half the time), Malik was no better. 

Leonardo looked up at him with a skeptical eyebrow. “Why do you feel like you should get out if you do not want to?”

“It seems like the advice I’d give to me if I weren’t me,” Malik said. He bent forward and pulled Leonardo up away from the nonsense designs he was drawing across his ankle. Leonardo came easily, sat in his lap and ran his fingers through Malik’s hair. It was longer now than it had managed before. The chaotic peaks of it were the start of curls that he never allowed to grow out. “For instance, I just told my brother to avoid starting a relationship with a Muslim girl.”

“That seems like odd advice from you,” Leonardo said. He kissed Malik’s neck as he dropped his hands from his hair to his shoulders and squeezed his upper arms with his long-long-fingers. “Your liberal attitude towards sex is one of the things I like best about you.”

“Kadar isn’t me,” Malik said. “I wish someone would understand that.”

“Did you advise him away from the girl for his own safety or to appease your guilt about not following your Mother’s pious example?” It was a question that was poorly matched to the way Leonardo was sucking at his neck. (It was as good as a bucket of cold water being thrown over his libido. A sudden, shocking lack of interest in pursuing anything sexual.)

Malik sighed. “I don’t want him to fall in love with someone he’s never going to be allowed to marry. My Mom loves me and I couldn’t be happier but no Muslim family is going to let their daughter date my brother after they find out about me.” 

“You have a very narrow view of the world. You are a wasteland where hope goes to wither away and die.” Yet, there Leonardo sat in his lap still stroking his skin as if he could recover the situation from the perilous fall into unwanted territory it had gone. The frown that crossed Leonardo’s face was severe but brief. “Allow your brother his own mistakes, Malik. You have been allowed to make yours. Support him when he needs support. Let him grow up without your fear.”

“I’m not afraid. I’m just intelligent enough to know the odds.”

Leonardo sighed again. “You are full of shit.” But then he kissed him and it was easy to forego arguing the point when the alternative involved orgasms and sleep. 

\--

son-of-no-one: Sass, you are an eloquent bitch. Spare me your feelings on the connotations of the word bitch please. (2m ago)

Son-of-no-one: 1. Yes, 2. Some might say clumsy but yes, 3. Absolutely, 4. Hypocrite, 5. Not all of us went to calligraphy camp. (2m ago)

Bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, you are not worth the effort. (1m ago)

Desmond dug the panties that were lodged in his couch out and threw them at Altair who didn’t notice until they hit him in the face and then ended up tangled around the top of his phone. “Where did those even come from?” he asked. “You haven’t brought anyone else over here since that girl with the pink shirt. I gave that shirt to Lucy, by the way.”

“You shouldn’t give your not-girlfriend slut clothes. She’ll start thinking that you’re capable of viewing her as a sexual person and get all hopefully wet before you turn around and continue acting like a blind idiot.” All of this Altair said without looking away from his phone. The curl of a smirk on the edge of his lips meant whatever he response he had gotten satisfied his demand for acknowledgement from the relatives. 

Desmond picked up a pillow and threw it at him where he was sitting with his back against the chair. It hit him in the head and Altair grabbed it and threw it back at him. “You shouldn’t use Sass like this,” he said rather than throw the pillow back.

“I’m not using her.” But even Altair couldn’t make that denial stick. “I am using her but she is fully aware of what is happening and I am not forcing her to do anything. I am giving her an opportunity and she is choosing to take advantage of it.” 

“Beware of becoming the monster you want to slay,” Desmond said. He sat up long enough to pick up his glass of water and slouched back into the couch. “You don’t have to babysit me all the time. If that’s relevant. I’m sure there’s better things you could be doing.”

Altair’s glare had gotten to a dangerous point of intimidating in the past few weeks. Not even the ridiculous flop of his rinsed-out hair could counteract the lethal intent in his eyes. “Why is it babysitting when I stay with you because I am worried but you do not consider it babysitting when you did the same for me?”

“You’re younger,” Desmond said. (But it was babysitting. That was the answer. He had done his best to make sure Grandma’s baby was taken care of look-at-him-now. Grandma would be so fucking proud.) He yawned and Altair’s concentrated frown got all that much more potent. “I’m going to take a nap before I have to go to work. If you’re still here when I get up, there better be something to eat waiting for me.”

“Sure,” Altair said. “I finally memorized your address.”

“Learn to cook. Your take out is making me fat.” Then he slapped Altair on the sore shoulder as he walked past him toward the bedroom. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Revolving door? I’ve been called some names before, Sass but I think that might be near the top of my favorites list. Whatever I did to piss you off must have been spectacular. You never did tell me if you got an orgasm out of the ordeal.

That was because Malik wasn’t going to answer that stupid question (ever). 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I considered referring to you as the village bicycle but I was trying to be fair. If it were only one thing that you have done to piss me off, I would have given up on you long ago. The problem lies not in what started this whole stupid thing but the fact that you simply do not learn.

Altair rolled his eyes at the phone. “What a bitch.” 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> That’s just not fair. I’ve learned a lot. You have the benefit of anonymity and a simultaneously omniscient and blurred view of my life from a great distance. You see the result but not the cause of my actions. It’s easy to judge when you don’t have to burden yourself with details. You can call me a slut because everyone knows that I sleep with anyone that looks interested and that’s fine. You call me a womanizer because instead of a relationship, I want sex. Fair enough. I’m not picking sex partners based on their cunning intellect and our spiritual compatibility. I want someone that flirts with me without making it too obvious that all they see when they look at me is money. I’m shallow enough that I want a woman that’s nice to look at but I’m not so stupidly shallow I’ve rejected people because they had a more attractive friend standing next to them. I have sex a lot. I like it. I like enjoying it. 
> 
> People date me for fame and money. They date me because it looks good to people they want to impress. How is that any more honest than meeting some woman in a bar and deciding to spend a night with her? How am I better person for participating in that farce? Why is it more socially and Sass Badger approved to go through the mundane and mind numbing ritual of getting to know someone through a series of preprogrammed activities when I have no expectation of ever wanting to be married? 
> 
> Explain that to me, Sass.

Reading that E-mail while sitting in the library with the pretense of working on homework (but while really simply waiting for Peter-the-guy-who-wanted-to-have-sex-with-him) was perhaps the wrong time and circumstances to have read it under. For a moment, Malik found himself actually agreeing with Altair.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Having and enjoying sex is not the problem. You can sleep with every eligible maid in the land and it will not make you a better or worse person. It is not that you have sex with interested parties that causes a problem but the attitude that you employ toward these momentary engagements. You benefit from being born a man which gives you the advantage. So you’ve slept with a hundred women and you brag to everyone who will listen. You’re a manly hero bedding hapless women in your quest to be the most successful breeder in the bunch. 
> 
> You have zero respect for the women you’ve had sex with and it’s evident in the careless way you treat them. Try bothering yourself to remember that even if you only spent a night (or less) with them that they are people. They deserve to be treated respectfully and not have their panties paraded around the internet.

Lucy could do almost as many pull-ups as Altair could. It was a surprising revelation that he’d made only after they made visiting local playgrounds during school hours (to make use of the obstacles provided by them) a semi-regular thing (when he wasn’t attempting to learn how to dance). Her arms seemed too slim to be capable of the feats of strength she showed. 

“Ha!” she said to the look of open shock that must have been on his face. “Don’t worry, you’re still the only one of us with a dick.”

Altair groaned at her and she laughed at him. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> What the hell is going on with Altair?
> 
> On one site there are pictures of him with Lucy and speculation they are dating
> 
> but then this gossip site says that he’s gay
> 
> And his super Catholic family has disowned him
> 
> What?
> 
> How does that even make sense?
> 
> Well you were a bitch when you thought Mom was going to hate you
> 
> What homework are you avoiding doing?
> 
> For once could you not nag me to be responsible
> 
> I’d like to have my objection to avoiding doing the work you were assigned to be noted.
> 
> It has been duly noted
> 
> Now, what’s happening with Altair?
> 
> I have no fucking idea.
> 
> But honestly, if he was caught being gay and his family disapproved, there was no way it’d still be a secret.
> 
> No I guess they’d be all for the public shaming
> 
> I just want to know why.
> 
> He just did a sex tour of Europe with his cousin. Now look at them
> 
> I’m sure the whole stupid story will be available eventually.
> 
> How’s Amina? What happened there?
> 
> We meet in the library on Tuesdays to talk.
> 
> We’re not dating.
> 
> I asked her if her parents would be upset with us meeting
> 
> She said they would not be upset as long as we weren’t thinking about or discussing things that weren’t proper
> 
> I think Mom would love her.
> 
> But we’re not dating
> 
> Well. Good.

If only Malik were capable of saying that like he really meant it (even in text). Kadar didn’t worry himself too much about Malik’s opinions of his actions. (He did, but he tried not to when Malik wasn’t close enough to follow him around the house reiterating his point.) Except that, most likely, Malik was right (again).

Kadar wanted to date Amina. He wanted to take her out to eat and to see a movie and sit with her and talk about everything they saw and felt and thought. He wanted to hold her hand and watch how her face got even prettier when she was talking about something she really believed in. Kadar wanted to drown himself in all of her thoughts and when he was filled to the brim (he wanted to kiss her). 

He couldn’t. But it was there like a stone in his gut and an unfulfillable desire. As soon as he talked to his mother about Amina, everything would change and her parents would be dragged into it. There wouldn’t be a single moment of peace.

Meeting with her on Tuesdays with the frowning librarian growing ever wearier of their interruptive presence during her quiet period, was a hellish privilege. One that he hoped to exploit until he could not stand it another second.

\--

>   
> **Ezio**
> 
> Spare me the denials. One of you is responsible for the sudden resurgence of gay rumors. Dick move.
> 
> Ah yes, but refusing to attend Vincenzio’s christening was mature.
> 
> Writing ‘I refuse to support a loveless marriage’ on a public photo was not a dick move.
> 
> Gay rumors are a dick move because they will hurt the baby’s feelings!
> 
> Altair will not give, Ezio. If you remember anything of Grandmother you should know this.
> 
> Then stop him, Desmond.
> 
> I cannot restrain my brother forever. 
> 
> Altair will not like what his actions unleash.
> 
> Ours is a family of strong minds, Ezio. I’ll intervene only if I feel it has escalated beyond acceptable behavior.
> 
> Fuck.

Desmond through the trash tabloid into his recycling and turned his phone off before it could start accepting messages from other sources. His new phone (the one with the number that only the necessary few had) was vibrating out on the table only barely audible over the pause screen of his game. When he went out to look at it, he rolled his eyes at the message from Altair that said: 

‘ _Guess what, Desmond, according to sources close to the family, I’m gay and ashamed. I’m going to go suck a dick now._ ’

What the Auditores had never managed to realize about the boy they so easily dismissed as the family baby was that he was raised by a woman made of iron-and-steel. Her resolve was unshakeable and she had passed that down to the only child she had raised. There was no mercy in Altair and once he had set himself along a path there was nothing (absolutely not-a-thing) that would deter him. 

Guilt paralyzed him with grayness but vicious _pleasure_ at this failed attempt to shake Altair from his course brought pinpricks of hope digging into his skin. Hope was worse but it did not give.

\--

son-of-no-one: the secret’s out. I can’t perpetuate the lie any longer. It’s true. (3m ago)

son-of-no-one: @FedericotheFirst, married @Ms_Cristina_Auditore, for the money. She got knocked up, he was threatened with being disowned. (3m ago)

son-of-no-one: oh, also, when I see another man’s dick I break out in rashes and homophobic wailing (3m ago)

At which point, Malik could only sigh. 


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter TWENTY THREE

> [Video starts with the view of the inside of Altair’s massive closet. He steps into the video wearing only a pair of jeans and drying his hair with a towel.]
> 
> Altair: So, obviously by now you’ve found out that I was eliminated from dancing with the semi-famous. Since I’ve got nothing better to do, I thought I’d get back to doing these videos. Some people, [Altair picks up a tabloid with the headline: Eccentric Millionaire Goes Wild! Family expresses concern.] think that I’m doing blow off some twink’s belly in the back room of seedy gay bars. While that sounds like a fantastic plotline for a low-budget porn, the truth is that I’m not nearly that interesting. [Motions around his closet.] It’s, [picks up his phone and looks at the screen] about ten in the morning and I just woke up. Took a shower, getting dressed. I’m going to go eat whatever junk I can find in my kitchen.
> 
> [Video transitions to the kitchen where Altair is going through his pantry, still shirtless. There is clearly a great deal of food.]
> 
> Altair: I need to update my shopping list. I don’t eat half of this stuff anymore. Fun fact about me: I eat anything. I’m sure at least some of you have seen the pictures of me before puberty. There were a lot of sundaes in my life. There’s nothing here I want to eat. So, I must get dressed. 
> 
> [Video transitions to Altair sitting at a table in restaurant. There is a glass of water in front of him while he looks at a menu.]
> 
> Altair: It’s lunch time. I missed breakfast because apparently normal people get up before ten in the morning.
> 
> Lucy: [off-screen] You make that sound unreasonable. 
> 
> Altair: It is unreasonable. If you have the ability, stay in bed until ten. Blankets and pillows are proof that God loves us. Now, if any of you are wondering I do not snort coke for breakfast. I enjoy the staples. Cereal, eggs, ham, and so forth.
> 
> Lucy: [off screen] Cereal like corn flakes?
> 
> Altair: I don’t like cold cereal. I like hot cereal. There’s this one called Mamuneh'ya that my Grandma made for me when I was a kid. It was really good. Sweet and she put cinnamon on it. 
> 
> Lucy: [off screen] I have no idea what that is. 
> 
> Altair: It’s a food. So, I’m going to eat my lunch. This takes a while because there’s chewing and talking and drinking. I’d let everyone watch but the waitress asked me not to film her so you’ll just have to imagine what it looks like.

“Cocaine?” Desmond said when the camera was off. He was all but flattened against the wall behind the camera to avoid being caught on film (even accidentally) and only relaxed after it had been turned off. His body expanded to take up the appropriate amount of space as he picked up the camera and put it back in the bag on the empty chair next to him. 

Altair reached down to pull the trashy tabloid of his bag and threw it to Desmond. “Not just cocaine. I’m also a raging alcoholic that uses homophobia to cover up my shameful deep-seated longing for preforming fellatio. Unsurprisingly, my high risk lifestyle has led my family to worry about me. It’s only a _matter of time_ before I contract AIDs or something.”

Lucy leaned across the space between her and Desmond to peer at the grainy pictures of him (taken entirely out of context). The story itself was presented as fact while being completely ridiculous. There was a mention of ‘sources close to the family’ once or twice. (Probably Federico or someone hired to sell the story on his behalf.) “I don’t mean to blow holes in their story but you don’t look like a crack addict.”

Desmond snorted. “This,” he said and flipped the paper up as if Altair needed to see it to remember what it said. (It was the fourth such story to come out in the past two weeks. Each of them with more details than the last. The embellishments made them seem all the more credible save for how they were all bullshit.) “Is childish. Don’t get dragged into this.”

“That’s childish?” Lucy said with a half-laugh. 

Altair nodded and Desmond folded the tabloid in two and tossed it back to him. Telling stories was a house specialty at the Auditore family villa. They had mastered the art of making themselves look good to the press. This thinly veiled attack against him reeked of poorly contained spite. “Oh don’t worry. They’re going to send someone out to handle me in person.”

Desmond rubbed the center of his forehead. “For everyone’s sake, let’s hope they send Ezio.”

“Of course they’re going to send Ezio. He has a camera crew following him around. They can capitalize on the drama, act like this was all to promote his show and get footage of us having a fight to prove it.” Altair slapped the menu down without having any better idea what he wanted to eat than when he picked it up. “Just, be available to bail me out of jail in case they send someone else.”

“I’ll be available to pick you up from the ER if you end up having to have your face glued back together,” Lucy said happily from her side of the table. Which was the most likely outcome should they decide to send Federico. “I need food. Where is the waitress?”

\--

> [Video starts with a clear view of a flag pole. Altair and Lucy are standing in front of it glaring at one another. From the slight shake of the camera it is obvious someone is holding it.]
> 
> Altair: so, sometimes I hang out with Lucy. Lucy is the best barista in the city. 
> 
> Lucy: Hi.
> 
> Altair: So, when we hang out we generally end up doing stupid stuff like challenging each other to see who can climb this flag pole the fastest. Ready?
> 
> Lucy: [Takes her shoes off and nods.] Remember to stretch before you do stupid things, kids.
> 
> Altair: We already did that. Ok. One-two-three-go! 
> 
> [Lucy and Altair both start to climb the flag pole simultaneously. Lucy has an early lead, Altair curses while Lucy keeps going upward. The camera follows their progress to the top. Lucy wins. Altair slides back to the ground first.]
> 
> Altair: Sometimes, I get beat by a girl.
> 
> Lucy: [lands next to him.] Sorry, pumpkin. Maybe you should go find someone to give you an injection of masculinity?
> 
> Altair: [Turns to look at her with an obvious frown while she smiles at him with two hands on her hips.] 
> 
> Lucy: I heard you’re a fan of oral—
> 
> Altair: Shut up. 
> 
> Lucy: --administration. What? Some people swallow what’s put in their mouth.
> 
> Altair: [continues glaring.]
> 
> Lucy: Or you could swallow your pride and congratulate me on kicking your ass.
> 
> Altair: Congratulations.

Kadar had been watching the video when his Mother sat next to him on the couch. She did not start watching it over his shoulder until he turned the screen where she could see. Her face was a cautious twist of attempting to understand something (drastically out of context). When it was over she did not verbally ask him anything but turned her face so he could see her obvious skepticism about the wisdom of watching that short video.

“Most of the time his stuff is funnier,” Kadar said. “But he’s having a fight with his family.”

“Is he gay?” Mother asked.

Well, he wasn’t entirely straight. Unless Malik turned into a woman whenever he got drunk. (Which might have been funny in theory but still was not possible.) Kadar closed his laptop and sat up straighter. “I don’t know. He hasn’t said. There has just been rumors spreading around that he is.”

Mother obviously did not understand the entertainment value of watching semi-celebrities doing stupid things. “There are better uses for your time.” As far as reproaches went, it was a very gentle one. “Such as cleaning your room. Finishing your homework. Folding your laundry.” 

Then there was memorizing one of the chapters of the Quran before he met with Amina again. Trying to decide between those four tasks was only made easy by the fact that failure to memorize the surah he promised to would result in Amina thinking less of him. He didn’t care if his room was messy, he wasn’t interested in how well he was doing in his classes and he didn’t necessarily feel that his underwear would benefit from being folded. 

“Mom,” he said. 

“Do not give me reasons you cannot complete your tasks. Your floor needs vacuumed.” (It was important to note that the only person more obsessed with remaining clean and tidy than his Mother was his brother.)

Kadar did not roll his eyes but the urge was nearly overwhelming and difficult to resist. Instead, he set his computer to the side and leaned forward to grab his book bag and pull his copy of the Quran out of the front zipper where he hid it among other various papers. “I wanted to memorize this. Do you have time to help me?” 

Mother was momentarily shocked into silence. (That almost never happened.) There was no secret that her heathen sons had not turned out exactly as she had hoped they would. Malik’s sexuality was hardly the most offensive thing about him (but technically it was pretty damn offensive). The fact that Malik believed in nothing that their mother believed in was another insult. Kadar wavered from one to the other, trailing after his brother out of habit while his Mother had to work long hours just to make sure they had a house to live in. When she had the time, she despaired over them and her own perceived failure to raise them properly. All that crossed her face as she took the Quran when he offered it to him. “Yes,” she said. “I have time.”

Kadar smiled and showed her the chapter he was working on. 

\--

> [Video starts with Altair in a large bathtub. There is steam rising from the water.]
> 
> Altair: I have a bathtub only because I wasn’t smart enough at sixteen to put a hot tub in my bathroom. Of course, when I was sixteen, I wasn’t that interested in the long term of anything. I was an idiot kid with access to a monumental amount of money and I hired a lawyer that convinced a judge I was smart enough to make it on my own. While the rest of you were stuck in gym class and learning prepositions, I was probably here. In my tub. Being rich and unsupervised. 
> 
> …

Malik bought headphones solely to watch stupid videos in the library in between his attempts to study. He sat with his elbow on the table and his chin pressed against his hand while he went through the amazing list of new videos that Altair-the-idiot had put up in the past week. He’d already watched the flag pole one, the one where Altair tried to cook and caught a pan on fire, the one where he played the ground is made of lava in a public place and only barely managed not to kick a child in the head, and the one where he walked around getting hit on by women that had obviously agreed to say the ridiculous lines they were given. (Either that or Malik had really dodged a bullet when he was born homosexual and without a sense of humor.)

In light of this video, the one where Altair was completely naked and rambling about how rich he was, Malik dropped his head down to press his forehead against the wood of the table and blindly closed his laptop.

“Why are you such an asshole?” he mumbled into the space between his chest and the table. “Why?” He was aware that he might have appeared insane to anyone in the library around him but at this point, after this much time, it could not have been a surprise to anyone. He spent a moment trying to work out what he could even say to encompass everything he felt about these videos and all the things that were so very morally wrong about them. When he could think of nothing but a string of words his Mother would be ashamed of him for even thinking, he sat up again. 

Peter, the hot guy he had been sort-of waiting to accidentally-on-purpose run into, was standing an arm’s distance away looking oddly nervous. “I didn’t know what you were doing. I didn’t want to interrupt if it was a religious thing or something.”

Malik did not have enough time in his life to point out how stupid that assumption was. It was the wrong time of day, setting, posture, and direction for him to be praying or performing any other religious thing. In place of explaining that, he smiled. “No,” he said. 

“Oh,” Peter said. “Homework thing?”

No. It was a: _how can one single person be so obnoxious and yet somehow still charming and what the hell did the Auditore family even do to piss Altair off so much that he had begun a relentless assault against them? How did Altair go from being a man who could barely walk in a straight line with any competence to being able to mastermind such an ongoing assault with such unerring, petty success for so long?_

“Yeah,” Malik said. “It’s not a big deal. What about you? What are you here to do?”

Peter’s smile was genuinely pleased when he said, “you, hopefully.” His cheeks even went a little pink and that made him even more attractive because Malik liked a guy who knew how stupid he really was. 

“I would prefer that infinitely to my homework.” He stood up and shoved his stuff back in his bag. When it was all tucked away he followed Peter out of the library, to his car (chatted about nonsense and small talk) and to his dorm room that was delightfully empty. 

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> If you’re not too busy making an ass of yourself on film, come find me.
> 
> So I can make an ass of myself on your film?
> 
> At this point, the only thing keeping the unholy wrath of my Mother and brother from descending upon you is the idea that we can still tell everyone this was publicity for my show.
> 
> I do not want to fight you.
> 
> Just show up.

Altair didn’t want to fix his hair so he put a beanie on instead. It wasn’t necessarily cold enough for one but it took much less effort to pull a hat on than it did to make his hair into something presentable. He took his phone and his keys and went to find Ezio. 

The address he was given led him to a five-star hotel that took in his scruffy (he had not shaved in two or three days) appearance, poor clothing choices (he stood by the shirt he chose, it conveyed his utter lack of interest and it had long sleeves) and inability to engage in social niceties (he had walked up and said he needed Ezio Auditore’s room without even so much as a hello). 

“I’m sorry,” the woman behind the tall desk said. “I need to see ID please.”

Altair fished his wallet out of his back pocket and pulled his ID. There was a refreshing lack of recognition on the woman’s face as she looked at his card—that had his whole impossible to pronounce name—and then at him again. 

“Sir,” she said when she chose not to butcher his name, “I’m just going to call up to the room to verify you were invited.”

“Sure,” he said. He pulled his phone out and ran his thumb over the screen. He loved the phone despite the smudges all across the touch screen and the fact that it was effectively useless as a _phone_. (Who needed to call someone in this day and age anyway?) He was half-way through sending an e-mail when the woman interrupted him with a curt cough. “Sir,” she said again, “I apologize for the wait.” That just meant that she found out that he was Someone Important and didn’t want to face any repercussions.

Altair reached up without looking away from the screen of his phone and plucked his ID back out of her hand. “Sure. What’s the room number?”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m going to see my cousin. I might not come out with my face still as pretty as I went in. Try not to take too much satisfaction in my disfigurement. 

Malik read the message between his first class and his second. There wasn’t enough time to answer it properly so he left it alone. He had to jog most of the way to his second class, stop in the hallway to buy something that vaguely nutritional from the vending machines (think again that he needed to start buying actual healthy food to bring with him) and then dash toward his class to arrive just in time to avoid being late.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Just walked into a room full of camera men and Ezio
> 
> He’s wearing really expensive clothes
> 
> He smells like money and olive oil
> 
> I think I’m about to get assaulted
> 
> Thank god you’re taking the time to text me about it.
> 
> Well, if you were about to get your ass kicked by one of the Auditore brothers, I would think that you’d stall too.
> 
> Unless Federico is hiding in the closet with a crowbar I think you’re fine.
> 
> I’ll call you when this is over.
> 
> Don’t be noble while fighting. If it comes to that, go for the soft spots.

Altair was exhausted. It was an odd thing to feel in the short breath of space between his lip curling up at Desmond’s advice and his finger depressing the button on the phone that turned the screen off. He took a moment to look at the blank screen before he tucked it into his back pocket and finally bothered to look up at Ezio. Exhaustion (not anger) made his shoulders slump and his arms feel like leaden weights at his sides. It wasn’t a safe thing to feel under the scrutiny of a crew of men sent to document everything they could see. But it persisted as he looked at Ezio standing there wearing his fine-tailored clothes with his shiny-dark-hair and his careful look of effortless wealth. 

“So I’m here,” Altair said. He pushed his hands into the front pockets of his jeans and looked over at the crew and their camera. “Are you filming?”

Ezio was holding a menu pinched between two fingers of his left hand but it was drooping slowly downward toward the table near the chair he must have been sitting in. (Doing a confessional, perhaps, laying out what he expected to happen when confronting his cousin.) “They’re always filming something,” Ezio said. “How have you been?”

Altair considered this question. He considered Ezio’s presence here. He considered the olive branch that was extended to him very carefully. Nobody wanted a war (except for Altair. He wanted to rip away the fraudulent representation of a close-knit family) and that was why Ezio was there as one last attempt to stop it before it began. There must have been hell in the Auditore household with Federico shouting red in the face and Mama Maria in perfectly modulated tones advising caution and discretion. “You been talking to a lot of reporters lately, Ezio? I heard someone close to the family is concerned about my sex life again.”

“I didn’t come to fight,” Ezio said.

Altair laughed at that. “I didn’t come to make peace.”

At which point, Ezio closed his eyes as his jaw twitched and his teeth pressed together hard enough it made his whole face unattractive. Here was a man who had made a promise that he couldn’t bring himself to keep. 

(More importantly, here was a man who had seen the damage and had done _nothing_ to stop it.)

“Altair,” Ezio said with the utmost patience. 

“Fuck you,” Altair said. Then he turned around, shouldered his way past the man with the boom mike and yanked open the door. There was a made standing on the other side of the hall who drew in a quick breath of shock at being startled. Altair slammed the door again behind him and said, “where are your stairs?” Once pointed in approximately the correct direction, he started walking.

“Figlio di puttana!” was Ezio’s eloquent rebuttal as he yanked open the door. There was a spill of men following him out of the door but they were burdened with cameras and mikes. Even if they followed him down the stairs, they would not be able to keep up.

“Ma vai a morire ammazzato,” Altair retorted. He opened the door the stairwell in time with Ezio taking the first step toward him. The heavy door slapped shut before his cousin could even make it the half distance between where he stood and where Altair was. The inside of the stairwell was choked with echoing sound of the door closing. 

Altair spent only a moment to decide if he wanted to go up or down and at what speed. It was not fear (or practicality) that moved him to start jogging down the steps but _anger_. The sudden lurch of it so strong that he couldn’t stand to be inside. 

The whole of the stairwell was filled with the echo of his-steps and Ezio-steps and the ricocheting loudness of their voices. Ezio grunted when he hit the stairs and Altair jumped over the railings and dropped to the lower levels. 

“Bastardo!” Ezio shouted at him. 

But Altair was still on the ground floor first, out and into the lobby where the aghast receptionists were shocked to see him. His beanie was crooked before he pulled it straight and a few of the refined older ladies that had made the mistake of walking in as he went for the exit were loudly-disapproving of him. 

(“ _They will let anyone with money stay here now days.”_

 _“I think that was a hooker, dear.”_ )

Altair laughed at that assertion—spoken loud enough so that he would hear it—and turned around to glare at the woman who had most likely said it. He blew her a kiss before he faced forward again. That brief hang-up barely slowed him down but he still got caught by Ezio in the foyer of the hotel, between the inner doors and the outer doors. The loud, bright space where luggage was piled up on trolleys to be wheeled to the rooms by willing-and-eager-to-please bell boys. Ezio grabbed him by the shirt in mid-stride, yanked him forward through the doors and passed the doorman with the curiously worried expression on his face.

“Be careful, cousin, some people think I’m a hooker,” Altair said when he was roughly shoved out between two parked cars. The large turn around in front of the hotel was not overburdened with cars but the sound of moving vehicles was audible from the street. “Someone might start a rumor you’re into fucking cheap whores.”

“Altair,” Ezio said again. He was angry-as-hell (and he should have been). “You selfish, stupid, pig-headed little asshole! I did not come here to trade insults with you!”

“What did you come for then?” Altair demanded. His feet were slipping on the edge of a curb as he stepped back up onto a sidewalk again. Their fight had drawn the attention of valets that should have been moving the cars blocking the path to the front door. 

“I came to stop this!” Ezio shouted at him. “I came to remind you who your family is.”

“Did you think that I _forgot_?” Altair asked him. He darted forward faster than Ezio anticipated judging by his lack of response until it was too late. He grabbed him by his fine-fine-shirt and threw him back against the side of someone’s car. Every part of him wanted to fight, every shivering muscle in his body wanted _blood_. “I don’t need you to remind me who my _family_ is. I _know_.”

“Do you?” Ezio shouted back. He didn’t even offer an apology to the worried valet checking the car over for scratches and dents but gestured to the side with his arm. “Because you don’t act like you do. You’re acting exactly like a _spoiled_ little child! You didn’t get what you wanted and now you’re going to cry until someone gives in. It won’t work! They are never going to give.”

“I will make them,” Altair said. 

“At what cost? Do you imagine that you could say whatever you pleased about my brother and he would do nothing in return? Did you imagine that you could promote yourself into the public eye and disgrace my family and they would just let it happen?”

“I _imagined_ that when you said you would help that you would.”

“Federico was going to tell William where D—he lives!” Ezio shouted at him. 

And that. That was a bucket of frigid water against the charring fever of anger that left Altair’s whole body shuddering to a sudden standstill. His whole plan exploited the notion that the Auditores fought fairly and with _honor_. His attacks on them were direct enough that they invited direct retaliation. He expected it (and welcomed it, and actively went out of his way to encourage it). 

Ezio sighed as he pushed the stray bits of hair that had come loose from his pony tail away from his face. “You humiliated him,” Ezio said. “I think he would have done it.”

Altair couldn’t _think_. He swallowed a lump in his throat and then cleared it. The footsteps that closed the space between him and Ezio were soft-and-dainty. He put his hand on Ezio’s shoulder as if they were friends and tipped his head so they close enough to speak privately. “You already failed to protect him once, Ezio. Can you live with yourself if you do it again?”

Ezio shook him away, teeth gritted and face tight. “I can’t help you when you attack them like this. There is one rule in our family, Altair. One rule in _our_ ,” he motioned a circle between the two of them, “family. We protect ourselves, we protect each other and _you_ have declared war on us.”

“You deserve this and more.” Altair said. Because he’d been watching Desmond trying to crawl his way back into any kind of normal for _weeks_. He’d watched the only _decent_ fucking person in the whole God-damned _family_ fighting his way from his bed to his job and back to his bed in an endless circle with no relief from the gray monotony that followed him around. Desmond _deserved_ better than he’d gotten. 

Ezio hung his head, rubbed his hand across his face and stuck there a minute.

“Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me _that_.”

“There has to be a—”

“A _what_?” Altair demanded. “A _nicer_ way? Something less _humiliating_ for your family? Why do you think _they_ should have the benefit of _compassion_ when they couldn’t offer it? I have been kind before. I will not be from this point on. If you side with them, you are not my family.”

The sigh was defeat but Ezio looked at him with the face of a weathered old man, defeated by life. His shoulders sagged and his hand dropped away from his face.

The camera crew had found them at some point, the sum of them had swarmed in a circle around their two bodies like a pack of hungry vultures looking for tender meat. Altair had no forgiveness left in all his body. “Grandmother told me: do not take prisoners, do not allow survivors. If there must be war: kill all that oppose you. Pick a side, Ezio.” Then he left because there was nothing left to say. 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> I thought you would find this funny.
> 
> Altair sent me a message today implying he was going to fight his cousin
> 
> Isn’t that what happened to his face before?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Did you masturbate to the new ads yet?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Really?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> I’m proud that you’re working through your denial.
> 
> Great. Now we can move on.
> 
> Wait, I got a new message from him
> 
> You got a new message from Altair at ten thirty at night?
> 
> It’s not ten thirty here
> 
> It is here.
> 
> What’s it say?

Well, the problem with answering what the message said was that it was just the phrase: _Challenge 003, getting arrested version_ and a picture of Altair and Ezio sitting on a curb with a blue glow in the background. It was dark all around them. Ezio was glaring at something to the side. He had a fat lip and a smear of blood across his cheekbone. Altair was looking down at his shirt that had some awful combination of spills soaked into the front of it. The knees of his pants were ripped and the skin underneath was scratched open. 

“Well,” he said to the screen. “Your face looks fine.”

\--

> ### Challenge Accepted #003
> 
> This one I’m posting off schedule. 
> 
> [IMAGE]
> 
> 1\. You have just been in a bar fight.  
>  2\. It is clearly partially or entirely your fault as evidenced by the fact that you appear to be on the verge of being arrested.  
>  3\. You do not seem to care  
>  4\. You took enough time out of your busy schedule of possibly being arrested to make sure you sent this picture to me which means that regardless of what you did wrong, you still do not feel like you have any reason to experience shame.  
>  5\. This, too, is a message for whoever has offended you so deeply. It says: ‘look at me, I do not fight alone.’

But how it started was:

Ezio showed up at his apartment (sans camera crew) looking like a properly whipped dog. “Nonna would be proud of you. You are right.” But he didn’t let himself in through the door until Altair nodded and moved to the side to admit him. “So what is your plan? I assume you have a plan.”

“I do,” Altair said. He was in the process of fixing his hair and finding clothes that looked decent enough to go out in. “Tonight my plan involves us going out to a club or a bar. I don’t care which but it’s important it’s somewhere we are likely to get our pictures taken.”

“I was sent out here to stop you and you wish them to know how miserably I have failed? I will need to call the hotel and extend my day indefinitely.”

“Then do it,” Altair said.

Once dressed, they went out to eat. Ezio showed him pictures of the new baby (who despite being born to a petty, mean-spirited man, was suitably adorable). They made a show of being civilized and pleased to see one another. 

The bar they went to was full of beautiful people. Altair picked a table and found someone to talk to (she was here with friends who swore that this was the best bar in town and they had all been saving up to come here for a long time). Ezio came and went, danced with pretty girls and got new drinks and held court over the room in the singular way he did. 

Then some creep with grabbing hands wouldn’t take no for an answer. Ezio’s genial smile slid away from his face as he went from listening to the story Sophie (with dark brown hair and a Masters degree) was telling to look to the left where the creep was saying, 

“Come on baby, you don’t have to act so shy.”

And the woman was saying, “I’m not shy, I’m not interested.”

But the creep’s hand was around her arm pulling her back up against his body. Whatever else the man meant to say was cut off by Ezio’s bright burst of laughter. He had a drink in his hand when he said, “let her go.”

Creep (lacking a better name), shoved the woman forward. An open pocket of space formed around him. The woman that he’d been holding onto looked at her arm that had pink pressure marks on it from where Creep’s hand had been. Altair was still sitting in his seat but he could see the way Ezio was glaring at Creep (just looking for a reason).

“Do it,” Altair said. “I’ll bail you out.” Then he tipped his own drink up and swallowed it. The woman he’d been talking to looked all nervous-about-fighting and pleased-about-shows of savagery. 

“You did that to her?” Ezio said. He pointed across the pocket of empty space at the woman’s arm. “Are you alright?” he asked the woman. She ran her hand down her arm. It was not an affirmative or a denial but an answer all the same. Ezio grabbed the creep by the arm and the fight started with the growl of his anger rumbling under the din of noise in the bar. “Someone should teach you manners.”

Creep had two friends that were willing to fight for him. The bartender called the cops. Altair fell over dragging one of the jerks out the front door and scraped up his knees. He had bruised ribs from dragging Ezio off Creep once they were out in front of the bar. The police showed up. 

“You better bail me out,” Ezio said while they were sitting on the curb. He had blood on his mouth and across one of his hands. Then he cocked his head to look at Altair more closely. “You don’t know how to fight. Look at you, there’s hardly a mark on you.”

Altair shoved him away. “Not all of us enjoying stopping people’s fists with our faces.”

Ezio laughed and nodded his head. “My head is the hardest part of my body.” Then he looked back over to where the police officers were finishing talking to Creep. “I kneed him in the dick twice. He’s going to press charges.”

Ouch. “I would,” Altair said. On the other hand, “but if I were you I wouldn’t have stopped kneeing him in the dick.”

Ezio grinned. He did get arrested but he was happy enough with his choices.

\--

son-of-no-one: close enough, Sass. Five points.

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, do not give a point for the fight. That classless bastard deserved it. 

Desmond came home from work, went to sleep, and woke up to find that his idiot cousin problem had expanded to two. Lucy was sitting in her undershirt and work pants on the couch with one of her legs folded under her body. Her hair was loose around her shoulder still while she held a brush in one hand and scrolled through a series of pictures of Altair (wearing stained clothes) and Ezio (with a bruised face) laughing as they walked down a sidewalk.

“Oh,” Lucy said when she realized he was there. “How’d you sleep?”

Sporadically. His sleep tended to vary from nonexistent to death like with no indication when he went to lay down which way it would go. As such, he existed in a persistent state of exhaustion from under-or-over sleeping. Desmond nodded to the screen. “What happened?”

“According to Sass and Altair’s twitter, a bar fight.”

That was surprisingly normal. Desmond rubbed his face. “Could have been worse.”

Lucy started pulling her hair back into a ponytail. “Is this a good sign or should I start refreshing my basic hand to hand combat skills?” There wasn’t a lot about Lucy (on any given day) that wasn’t worthy of a second look but now and again, while she was doing mundane tasks (like stirring pasta and brushing her hair) Desmond found himself unable to concentrate on anything but the toned muscles in her arms. The way her whole body was deceptively slim and yet powerful. Her neck was long and graceful but the muscles in her shoulders were evidence of her life-before-now. 

(Sometimes, not often, he wanted to ask her about what she did in the Airforce.)

“They got in a fight together but not with one another. Altair won him over.” Which meant Ezio was officially an ally, which meant Mama Maria had lost a child. It was a cold-and-calculated strike against a woman who held onto nothing as fiercely as she held onto her children. 

Lucy stood up and grabbed her white button down shirt off the edge of the couch. “This is good. It’s progress.”

“If you want to call it that,” Desmond said. “Can I ride with you to work? I’ll walk back but I wanted some coffee.” 

Lucy rolled her eyes but nodded. “You have to put real clothes on though.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Here’s the story Sass:  
>  This man at the bar was harassing this woman. I doubt you care much about Ezio except that he’s part of my family and is sometimes present when I do stupid things that you disapprove of, but he has a long-standing history of getting really upset when someone hurts a woman. The whole blood feud he has with Vieri started over his treatment of a woman. The guy at the bar grabbed the woman hard enough to leave marks on her arm despite the fact that she didn’t want his attention. Ezio didn’t like that, he intervened and the creep and two of his friends retaliated. We helped them out of the bar where we fought some more and the cops were called.
> 
> Her name was Delores. This isn’t the first time it’s happened to her. I only know this because she came to talk to me after Ezio got arrested (for beating up the jerk who hurt her). She said that she was really grateful that someone did something. I asked her if I could take a picture of her arm because I knew someone that would report her story faithfully and put it out there that woman are sick of men grabbing at them. She agreed as long as I didn’t show her face. Then I got her a cab and sent her home with your website address.
> 
> I’m not asking you to do anything. But every stupid celebrity news network is going to be trying to figure out what happened last night. Beat them to it.

The picture showed a woman’s arm with a sliver-thin pink-purple bruise across her upper arm. She was wearing a pretty bluish dress (hard to see in the dark) with her other arm wrapped around her body. Along the back of her lower arm the phrase: _thank you, Ezio_ was written along with the date the picture was taken. The horrible scrawl of it made it obvious (to him) that Altair had written it. 

Malik had not woken up to answer an E-mail, it was only that his body was programmed to wake up at approximately the same time every single day and despite his best efforts he usually could not prevent it. The fact that he’d rolled over and found his laptop open (a sad testament to his growing dependence on it) and discovered he had an email had now prevented him from any home of going back to sleep.

So he took enough time to rub his face before he dug his phone out from under his pillow and called his brother. Kadar didn’t answer but a brief glance over his shoulder at the clock provided the reason why he hadn’t. (Also the reason that Malik’s Mother would be calling him later in the day to ask about why he was making casual phone calls during prayer times. He would have to come up with some convincing excuse that was not a lie but was also not the truth. I stopped praying because I don’t believe in Islam, Mother. I called Kadar because the guy I slept with accidentally did something semi-mature.)

It was at least ten minutes later (long enough for Malik to get up and go to the bathroom and return) before his phone rang. He picked it up, closed his laptop and went outside to answer it. The hallways were empty this time of morning because the sun wasn’t even up yet. 

“You’re in trouble,” Kadar stage whispered at him.

“I’m aware. Moving on, apparently Altair got in a bar fight last night because some guy was picking on a woman. So he sent me a picture this morning with the story and the girl’s name. It was heavily implied that I should put the story on my blog to make myself a reputable source of information about him.”

“And you thought to yourself: my god! A man that defends a woman who is being sexually harassed? That isn’t relevant to me simply because Altair asked me to write about it?” Kadar must have been getting dressed for school because the phone was on speaker and his voice was shockingly small through the earpiece. 

“I thought, do I want to become a source of reputable information about him?”

“Yes,” Kadar said. The phone switched from speaker to normal. “You do. Now I have to go get breakfast and listen to Mom wonder out loud what you were doing instead of praying at the correct time.”

Malik sighed. Kadar sighed back at him.

\--

> ### Last Night, or Challenge #003 explained
> 
> [Image]
> 
> As it turns out the above woman, Delores, was the recipient of repeated, unwanted and ultimately physically violent attention from an unnamed man. Ezio Auditore, in keeping with character, came to this woman’s aid. According to Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, the fight was joined by two friends of the man who assaulted Delores. 
> 
> Possibly, because men who feel it is perfectly okay to leave bruises on women are too frightened to fight fairly when confronted with an equal. While fighting is very rarely the answer, I sincerely hope that the man who hurt this woman learned a valuable, physical lesson. 
> 
> Just in case it has not been said enough: No means _no_. And nobody has the right to someone else’s body without their permission.

Altair read the post before he went to bed (sometime around 10 in the morning). There was a feeling almost like pride somewhere in his chest (next to the various aches and pains of his ribs). He had half expected Sass to deny the story based solely on her intermittent objections. He put up a brief tweet sending people to the Sett if they were interested about the picture of his multi-colored chest and went to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to Subaru who helped fix the Italian.


	24. Chapter 24

> **Altair**
> 
> This is Ezio. Can I come over?
> 
> Well, its nice of you to ask first.
> 
> kind of confusing since you stole someone else’s phone to do it
> 
> It wasn’t like he was going to give me your number.
> 
> I will come alone, no cameras to follow me.
> 
> Sure.

Desmond could have gotten dressed. Some part of his brain was filled with the notion that he should get dressed. Half because it was sometime after one in the afternoon and he’d already gone to sleep and woken up again so there was no reason he was still laying around in his old T-shirt and the pair of loose sleep pants that probably should have been washed. Half because it had become a habit somewhere in his childhood to put on clothes (and look nice) whenever Ezio appeared. The other Auditores cared what they looked like and the air of effortless perfection that they projected but none of them with so much intensity as Ezio. It was hard not to feel shabby next to the man.

Yet, there he was (stubbornly) slouching on his couch in his gray pants and his dirty T-shirt with yesterday’s scruff on his face and his hair two days’ worth of dirty. His breath was probably only one or two levels removed from rancid and yet he simply did not care enough to get up and address these many problems. His baby-sitters were both occupied: Lucy had a long shift at work and Altair had one of his monthly meetings to attend. 

For now, Desmond could slouch on his couch and wallow in his own filth. 

At least until Ezio knocked cautiously and came in after Desmond lazily shouted how the door was open. Ezio came creeping in with ducked shoulders and a nicely bruised face. He was carrying his phone in one hand and a pair of keys in another. His footsteps shuffled forward, around the end of the couch, past the chair and to the middle space of the game section of his living room. He paused there a moment to look at Desmond fully. Despite the bruises and the obvious sleep-deprivation, Ezio looked good. (Ezio always looked good.) He sighed and came over to sit on the couch next to him. “You look like shit,” Ezio said.

Desmond snorted. He didn’t look at Ezio but at his feet propped up on his coffee table. “Thanks.”

For a minute, Ezio floundered for lack of something to say. He was looking at Desmond. The weight of his staring was like prickles all across the back of his arms and neck. That distinct sensation of being observed and not enjoying it (even for a moment). “This is a fucking mess.”

“Yup.” If there was enough good will left in Desmond to feel bad about something he might have felt bad for how awkward and uncomfortable Ezio was. He might have tried to apologize. He might have made Ezio feel better. (Wasn’t that what he’d been doing for most of his life, making other people feel better for how he made them feel unhappy?) 

“Was this what you thought would happen if you told him?” Ezio asked. 

No. Yes. Desmond sighed and sat up. He put his feet on the floor and rubbed at the bristle-rough growth of a beard on his cheeks. The acutely disgusting smell of his body made being around his own limbs a task that he almost didn’t have enough energy to manage. Ezio being close enough to smell his utter lack of concern for his own body was the more troubling thing. So he got up and transferred himself to the chair. It gave him a clear view of Ezio’s bruises face and it was more comfortable. “Not exactly,” he said.

“Not exactly?” Ezio said. His impatience was a shameful thing. He motioned at Desmond’s entire body. “Was this why you didn’t tell him?”

There were many reasons he didn’t tell Altair about any of it. There was an infinity of reasons he hadn’t. Most of them were incidental (not knowing how to start, not knowing if it even mattered) but the most important of all reasons had nothing to do with the vengeance that Altair would always have sought out in the end. Desmond didn’t feel much (anymore) but what little he did feel was _anger_. When he felt that anger (inconstant and hard to maintain) he was _happy_ about every victory over the people who did nothing for him. Absent that anger, he was tired. “I didn’t tell Altair about what happened to me because I thought if I did, he would look at me the way the rest of you did. The way you still do. This isn’t ideal but it’s better than the alternative.”

Ezio was on his feet in a fit of agitation. “Fuck,” he said again. Standing did not provide him insight that sitting had not offered. He closed his eyes with his fingers pinching his sore nose. “How is this better?”

Desmond shrugged. He stared at Ezio long after it made the other man uncomfortable and then after, watching Ezio look at the wall and not at him. There were things to say, things that needed to be said, things that should be said and not enough breath in Desmond’s body to manage it. 

“He will not stop until he has the justice he wants.”

“There is no justice here,” Desmond corrected. Even if there were, Altair would not want it. It was vengeance that motivated the little idiot. Vengeance that added the petty humor to his attacks. “Even if there were, Altair would not be satisfied with it.”

Ezio collapsed back to sitting. “He said, if there must be war—kill all those that oppose you.” Then Ezio was rubbing his forehead with his thumb. “Is it really so bad?” Ezio asked.

No, Desmond made it all up years ago because he wanted money and hated his father. He’d stuck by a story that nobody believed even to this day and long after he’d won his prizes, he insisted they were true. All this because he was a spiteful creature. But Ezio wanted the truth, that much was obvious, so Desmond pulled himself up with monumental effort. “You were in the room. You saw the truth yourself. You _believed_ me.” (Ezio nodded.) “When your brother called me a worthless son, you were in the room. You _knew_ the truth. You _knew_ what my Father was like and what he said to me. Even if you didn’t know all of it, you knew that much.” (Ezio nodded again.) “You said nothing to Federico. You didn’t even try.”

For a moment, there was only the sound of that accusation hanging in the air. Ezio was covering his face with his hand as he took it in. Then he nodded (again, again) and looked up from his own lap. His face was mottled with odd colors and still it was his eyes (honest enough) that looked the worst out of everything. It was hard (must have been) to admit to fault and even harder to accept the people you loved were capable of awful things. Ezio did not preface his words with anything more significant than a soft noise of escaping air over his lips. “Desmond. I’m sorry. I did know. I did nothing. I have done nothing for many years. I convinced myself that you were well; that you were stronger than the many insults you endured. I convinced myself you suffered no lasting damage and that my inaction was excusable when it seemed like what you wanted. You are my family—easily the best of us—and I did not protect you. I do not know what Altair’s full plan is but I will not back down now.”

“I don’t know what his plan is,” Desmond said.

Ezio nodded and rubbed at the nape of his neck. His face (pink with shame underneath those awful bruises) settled into a wrinkled-look of disgust. “The first step will be to fix this,” he motioned at Desmond’s whole body. “You smell, you need to shave and I will burn those clothes out of mercy.”

Desmond snorted. He plucked at his pajamas. “I don’t need any more babysitters. Especially not one that has cameras following him around all the time.”

Ezio was up on his feet. He came over to pull Desmond to his feet. While Altair was worried and Lucy was insistent, neither of them were physical in their attempts to prod him through the day. Ezio turned him around when he was on his feet. “When you are clean again, we will go get something to eat.”

Desmond turned around before he could be shoved down the hall. The two of them were close enough that not even the furniture could hear the words they said. It was an uncomfortable level of closeness for them to maintain and yet Ezio stood there fearlessly waiting for whatever Desmond meant to do. “What are they going to do to Altair, Ezio? How are they going to hurt him?”

“Whatever they can,” Ezio said. But just as importantly, “but it will not work. I have seen his face. I have heard him speak. There is nothing they can do to him.”

Well, there was that much, at least. Desmond nodded and turned to go toward his bathroom. “Cook something, I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“I would not want to go anywhere either if I smelled the way you did,” Ezio said. But he went toward the kitchen anyway.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> What are you doing for Thanksgiving?
> 
> Do you celebrate Thanksgiving?
> 
> Not really. Kadar likes it because he likes food.
> 
> My current plan is to read and enjoy my dorm without the other guy
> 
> Or you could come stay with me for the weekend.
> 
> Having trouble getting laid?
> 
> No. I need an excuse not to go with my Mother.
> 
> You seemed convenient and believable.
> 
> I don’t know how to turn down that attractive offer.
> 
> So I’ll pick you up that Tuesday. Pack some clothes. I’ll provide the snacks and sex supplies.
> 
> Sounds like a plan

Malik had escaped the relatively small confines of the campus. He’d gotten his first check from the advertising on the website and after dividing a small part of it out to give to his brother, had decided to go celebrate. The trouble wasn’t that he was alone (although he was) but that he had a very limited idea of what there was to do in the city he’d been living in for months. Almost all of his time was dividedly evenly between attending class and preparing to attend class with all his left over time being dedicated to having sex with someone and doing research about Altair. 

So he took his money and went exploring what was close enough to walk to. He worked his way through a walking mall and spent an unusually long time in a dollar store feeling overwhelmed by how much junk food was available to purchase and how he had gone so long without knowing about it. 

Maybe he stood in the aisle staring at the lemon cookies far longer than any (semi) grown man should have but they were a mighty temptation that his newly discovered abs could only barely overcome. When he (narrowly) escaped that hell, he found his way to a used bookstore that was situation in a corner of the walking mall. As soon as he opened the door, the smell of old pages and dust rushed out. There was a woman standing behind the counter. She was young(ish) with a pixie cut and a pink shirt but she didn’t offer him more of a hello than a nod. 

Malik meant to do a casual tour of the labyrinth like shop and found himself sitting on a step next to a display of old sci-fi/fantasy novels. He had six of them in his lap and one of them in his hands. They were tattered and old, that sort of book that you only found in a thrift store when the owner was finally forced to part with it. The kind of book that nobody would recognize by name or title and had gone wildly overlooked by critics. The one he was reading had only two reviews on it and both of them were lukewarm attempts to say it was readable but hardly worth the effort. 

“That’s shop lifting,” interrupted him between page fifty six and fifty seven. The woman that pointed it out to him was holding four books in the crook of her arm while she smiled at him. He couldn’t figure out how old she was from a quick glance at her face but going from the playful accusation in her voice she was most likely younger. 

“I guess,” Malik said. He looked back at the books. “I’m used to libraries.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t usually see anyone else in here. I didn’t mean to interrupt you.” 

Malik smiled like a reflex and looked back at the woman’s face (so she wouldn’t think that he was angry or upset). “No problem,” he said. She left again and he went back to reading until the lady from behind the counter came to find him because it was closing time. He paid for the books he hadn’t managed to put back on the shelf. 

\--

> son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore is going to show me how to look more heterosexual (4m ago)
> 
> EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, it’s important to always look heterosexual. Otherwise someone might think you were not. (3m ago)
> 
> Son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, didn’t you have a gay uncle? (2m ago)
> 
> EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, of course I didn’t. We’re all straight in this family. (1m ago)

Ezio had the look of a man who had just written and signed his own execution order. He turned his phone off with all the authority of a man turning off a bomb and then leaned forward to set it on the cluttered tabletop. Lucy was reliable about cleaning up his mess but she hadn’t been over in three or four days (pretty much not at all since Ezio showed up to apologize and then did not leave). Ezio ducked his head and pressed the heels of his hands against his forehead as he said a few silent prayers asking for forgiveness that he obviously felt he deserved.

The trouble was that, a man could decide to align himself a cause he believed in but it didn’t make the task any easier. Desmond wanted to tell him it probably wasn’t worth it in the end. He wanted to tell someone that it wasn’t worth it in the end. Destroying the family wasn’t worth getting an apology that wasn’t going to help him feel any better. 

When Ezio looked up again, there was a white-spotted look of guilt and fear still caught on his face. “Didn’t you wear those clothes yesterday?”

Desmond looked down at his shirt, plucked at it and then shrugged. It smelled like, felt like it had been worn before. “Probably.”

At which point, Ezio slapped both hands to his legs and stood up. He grabbed Desmond by the arm and pulled him up to his feet (despite the fact that Desmond did not want to get up). Ezio was muttering in Italian, all curses in a long drawl that ended abruptly at the doorway of Desmond’s room. There was a pile of his clothes (long abandoned on the floor) sitting at the end of his unmade bed. Ezio—prim, proper, impeccably dressed—stopped short. “When is the last time you did your laundry?”

He washed his work clothes last week. Primarily to appease Lucy who also needed to do laundry and wondered about why the hamper in the hallway closet was so close to empty all the time. Sure, he was spending most of his time at work or sleeping but he had to wear clothes now and again. Plus Altair kept dragging him out to do things like eat food and go running. “When is the last time you did yours?” Desmond asked. “Do you even wear the same thing twice?”

“I know how to do laundry. Just because I do not always have to do it myself does mean I am ignorant. _Desmond_ ,” Ezio said as he stepped across the mountain of dirty clothes and pulled open his closet to discover it mostly barren. He discovered a basket in the bottom of the closet and threw it out toward the pile. “Where do you wash your clothes?”

There was a laundry mat in the basement but Desmond usually went to one down the street. “You’re not washing my clothes.”

Ezio was sorting them first. Plucking them up with his two pinched fingers. The jeans were tossed into one pile, the light colors into another, darks and socks-and-underwear each with their own pile. Halfway through, he huffed a sigh and looked up at him. “We should burn it all and start again.”

“Would that be any easier?” Desmond asked. “I hate shopping for clothes.” He went to get the laundry bag that he usually carried and came back to stuff the clothes into it. By the time they had cleaned up his floor, Ezio was angry in a way that was distinctly abrasive. “You don’t have to do this,” Desmond said. “I know how to take care of myself.”

“You what?” Ezio demanded. He took a breath and held it in his chest as he stared at Desmond. Then he motioned at the laundry and at his body and all around the room. “This is not taking care of yourself. This is wallowing.”

Clearly, Desmond needed to do a better job at pretending to be human. “So?”

Ezio growled in aggravation and turned around to grab the last of his clean clothes out of the closet before throwing them at him. “Get dressed in clothes that do not smell. We are going to do your laundry.”

“Are you bringing your film crew?” Desmond asked. He hadn’t caught the clothes when they hit his chest so he had to lean down and grab them off the floor. “I don’t want to be filmed.” But he wasn’t necessarily opposed to the notion of watching Ezio trying to use a laundry mat while being filmed. The idea had merit. “I’ll tell you want to do. You should call Altair and have him come help you.”

“Ha,” Ezio said. But he was considering it. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Me [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Here’s a five things picture for you that isn’t so serious. In my defense, I clearly never had to do basic life skills for myself before.

The picture was of Altair looking down at his own body and the bleached-out-speckles all down the front of his black shirt and his jeans. His look of horror was made all the more hilarious by the tipped-over bottle of bleach and the inevitably ruined clothing in the open top of the washer he was standing in front of. His cousin (Ezio) was three steps to the right with a look of such comical horror on his face that taken out of the rest of the picture, one could easily mistake it for the face of a man who had just uncovered a grave full of beheaded children. All around them was a crew of men with various filming equipment (each of them aghast in horror or pink with amusement). 

Malik laughed not because Altair was too dumb to know how to use bleach but because of Ezio’s expression. The way he had obviously jumped backward out of the range of the spilled bleach and the whole ridiculousness of the scene. Then he forwarded it to Kadar.

\--

> ### Challenge Accepted: #004
> 
> [IMAGE]
> 
> 1\. You are adding undiluted bleach to a washer full of clothes that are not white while there is no water in the washer. All of those clothes are ruined.  
>  2\. You are twenty one years old and have never learned how to take care of your own clothes. This is disgraceful for many reasons. The fact that you are wealthy enough to always have someone take care of these details of living for you notwithstanding, you should know how to wash your own clothes.  
>  3\. You have spilled bleach everywhere. (I’m aware that that’s not really ‘something wrong’ in the greater picture as even saints are capable of dropping bleach. However, I can’t help but think that upon dropping the bleach while being filmed, your reaction was not to set the bleach up and immediately clean it up but that you proceeded to make an ass out of yourself while the mess got even larger. Perhaps for comedic effect.)  
>  4\. I really can’t think of anything else. This picture is gold.  
>  5\. Your cousin, Mr. Auditore’s, face might be the best thing about this picture. I hope that you apologized to him and the owner of the clothing that you utterly ruined.  
> 

Altair had tried calling Lucy but she had ignored him. The curt sound of her voicemail told him exactly what she felt about his decisions and while he respected that she was allowed to leave the side-show attraction that being his friend was slowly becoming, he didn’t know _why_. He tried to find her at the coffee shop but she had already left for the day and so he found himself at her apartment.

It was small and cramped and awkwardly situated. The door was answered by another woman with short dark hair and a look of casual disinterest in his existence. She took in the sight of his clothes and his face and something like recognition flickered across her face but ultimately she just turned her head and shouted, “it’s for you Luce!” 

Altair let himself in since the door was open. He closed it behind him just as Lucy came up the short, narrow hallway that (he assumed) led to the bedrooms. She was toweling her hair dry, wearing a long shirt that barely made it all the way to her thighs. He tried to smile charmingly but the moment she saw him, she was rolling her eyes and turning around to leave again. “Lucy,” he said.

“You stay there,” Lucy shouted back. 

The roommate (he assumed) spared him a sorrowful look of pity before she got up and took herself and her phone down the hallway to her own bedroom. The door closed behind her almost in time with Lucy’s yanking open again. When Lucy came back she was wearing a pair of jeans under her long shirt and pulling her still-damp hair up into a ponytail. 

“Why are you mad?” Altair asked.

“Why am I mad?” she repeated, “why am I _mad_?” Clearly, what she felt went so far beyond angry that she couldn’t even find acceptable words to encompass it. “How about because you sent your Italian stallion cousin over to Desmond’s when he’s too depressed to defend himself?” she demanded. “Maybe because I thought you were spending all your time trying to make the Auditore’s apologize for whatever they did and now all of a sudden there’s one setting up camp in Desmond’s living room. No—that’s not why!”

“Lucy,” Altair tried to say.

“I’m angry because I thought Desmond mattered more than the rest of it. I’m angry because you’re not there. I’m angry because it’s been over a fucking month since this started and Desmond’s worse now than he ever was before. I’m _furious_ because I—” There were tears in her eyes and her teeth gritted tight against something she didn’t want to say. “I didn’t think it’d be this hard.”

“What?”

“He’s not getting better,” Lucy said.

No, Desmond wasn’t getting better. Altair thought about calling her an idiot. He considered asking what the hell she expected would happen but the raw truth was there. Desmond was _not_ getting any better. Even his smile (infrequent and rare) was less-and-less believable and every time Altair went to see him, he was farther-and-farther away from the person that he had been. The whole disaster was verging on a point of diminishing returns wherein whatever gain he expected wasn’t worth the cost. 

Altair caught Lucy by the arm and pulled her forward, put his arms around her as she tightened hers around him. Her face was damp pressed against his collarbone. “He needs you,” Altair said. 

“Help me convince him to go see someone,” Lucy said into his shirt. She didn’t loosen her hold on him but her fingernails dug in like she was willing to tear him to shreds if he tried to fight her.

Altair nodded. “Yeah.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> You will not fucking believe what I found today
> 
> Your conscience?
> 
> There is a website! A website that rates people on sexual prowess!
> 
> Did you get a failing score?
> 
> I did not. 
> 
> That’s not the problem.
> 
> I am in the top ten most rated people at my university!
> 
> Mom would be so proud
> 
> You’re a slut. I don’t understand how this is news to you
> 
> I didn’t think it was that many people.
> 
> I don’t know how
> 
> It says I’m shallow!
> 
> It says on a scale of 1-10, I won’t sleep with anyone below an 8.
> 
> I’m amazed you sullied yourself with people who scored an 8
> 
> People are sleeping with me to prove they’re hot.
> 
> I am not shallow!
> 
> Yes you are.
> 
> No I’m not.
> 
> Malik. I love you.
> 
> You are shallow.
> 
> Name one guy you slept that you didn’t think was stupid
> 
> Leonardo.
> 
> That doesn’t count. Leonardo is also very attractive
> 
> Try to think of one guy you slept with because of his personality
> 
> Not his hot body or attractive face
> 
> …are you there?
> 
> Malik.

The one thing that Kadar had learned from a closer review of Islam was that he was (quite frankly) terrible at resisting temptation. (Sexual attraction, for instance, was a constant problem for him. One that despite the fact he wasn’t supposed to give into, left him with a feeling of petulant entitlement. He was sixteen and he was horny and there was nothing wrong with thinking everyone woman he saw was the most sexually arousing sight he’d ever seen.) It wasn’t a problem for him most hours out of the day because his brother had been blunt about what puberty was like when Kadar went to find him after he got his first memorable erection.

Malik had given him greasy hand lotion and tissues and sent him on his way with the knowledge that most of the next few years of his life would involve making use of the two. What he hadn’t said was that Kadar wasn’t supposed to do it. Malik had neglected to mention that in between his various rants about why religion was a man-made nightmare used to brainwash the masses into complacency and obedience.

Malik hadn’t told him that masturbation was forbidden. Which was odd considering his brother had gone out of his way to mention every other thing that was also frowned on or forbidden. 

“What’s wrong?” his mother asked him. She was setting the table while he stared at his computer trying to find a website to offer him advice about how to quit masturbating that didn’t involve anything too drastic or insane. (Although, really, aside from reminding himself it was forbidden, that he was wasting his life and dressing himself in a lot of layers most of the advice was too absurd to take seriously.) 

Kadar huffed a sigh and closed his laptop. He picked it up and put it over on the counter out of the way. “I just—” He wasn’t sure what he thought. “Thought I’d made up my mind about something I haven’t.”

Mother set his plate in front of him and hers at her place before she sat down. “What has made you doubt yourself?” She interrupted their conversation to mouth words of thanks for the food they were given. 

Kadar did it as well and when they were finished, he stared at his food without having any urge to eat it. (Fasting, supposedly, would make him less horny.) “Just,” he started and then stopped, “everything says that we shouldn’t keep Malik. Why—no, that’s not what I mean.”

“Why did I choose to love my son instead of punishing him?” she asked softly.

Yes. More or less. Kadar looked at her as she thought about the way she wanted to answer the question. “But it’s more than that,” he said softly. “Malik doesn’t—always—believe in anything.”

From the way his Mother raised her eyebrow, it was clear that she was more than aware of the many difficulties that Malik experienced when it came to having faith. She sat back in her chair and cleared her throat (which was almost never a good sign). “I left Syria because I wanted freedom. Your Father was ill before we made this decision. I was born and raised there, do you understand? Malik was born exactly as he is now. I knew as soon as I held him that his life would be hardship even if I could not name why. I brought my sons to this country to give them freedom to make their own paths. I do not deny that it would make me happy to know that my sons will follow me but my love for you is not conditional.”

“But it’s wrong,” Kadar said. “How can you believe in Islam and still love Malik? He’s _wrong_. He doesn’t pray, he doesn’t practice chastity! He’s gay. How can you do both?”

At this, his Mother narrowed her eyes at him. “This is not about your brother.”

No, it was about a beautiful girl that believed so completely in Islam that he was left breathless. He felt inadequate and underprepared to spend time in her presence (much less to try to sort out his conflicted feelings about the religion that he had accepted by default as his own). He had given up masturbation (or he was working on that) and stopped thinking of prayer as stupid obligation. He’d never spent too long on whether or not he really believed in anything his Mother had taught him but now it consumed him with questions. 

His Mother did not relax out of her squinting stare until the answer occurred to her. “This is about a girl. You have met a Muslim girl.”

Yes. Yes he had. Kadar nodded.

There was just no way to know if the surprise on her face was because she didn’t expect him to find a girl that shared their religion or if she was underprepared for one of her sons to want to date a girl. (Malik did not date and he did not like girls, so there was really no reason to blame his Mom.) “What is her name?”

“Amina,” Kadar said. “She’s really nice, Mom. We meet in the library on Tuesdays to talk about Islam and school work and I just—” He shrugged. “I like her.”

His Mother smiled sweetly at him. “What do you like about her?”

Well, that he could talk about forever. Her voice and her beliefs and her gentle intelligence. He loved her passion for her beliefs. He loved the way she wore her hijab and how she toyed with the ends of it between her slim fingers while she talked. He could talk forever about everything he liked about her. (And he did, talk so much longer than he intended.)

When he paused, his Mother was smiling with pink around her eyes. She said, “Kadar. I want you to do what will make you happy in life. You need to know that there are not many who would forgive your brother.”

What she was saying, what she and Malik were trying very hard not to say, was that sooner or later, if Kadar wanted to date this girl, he’d have to choose between her religion or his brother. 

\--

>   
>  **Interviewer: Let’s just get the old favorites out of the way. Do you have a girlfriend?**
> 
> Altair: No. 
> 
> **Interviewer: What about crushes? I think there’s a lot of people that are curious about the woman who does the videos with you—Lucy?**
> 
> Altair: I don’t have a crush on anyone at the moment. Lucy is my friend. She’s amazing and beautiful. I don’t want to date her. We also haven’t ever had sex.
> 
> **Interviewer: What do you look for in a woman?**
> 
> Altair: I don’t. I don’t want to date a woman so I don’t have a list of requirements in my head for who I’d be willing to date. I’d rather go out and have a good time and if I meet someone who thinks the same as me, maybe we spend a night together. Maybe we don’t.
> 
> **Interviewer: Do you ever get lonely?**
> 
> Altair: No. I have family and friends to keep me company.
> 
> **Interviewer: There has been a lot of speculation about your family. Some of your posts on social media have a lot of people thinking that there’s been a parting of ways between you and the Auditore family. But, Ezio’s in town and you’re filming his new show that’s due to come out after the start of the year. Is there anything you can tell us about that?**
> 
> Altair: I am filming with Ezio right now. We just went and made a disaster at a laundry mat. He’s a good guy. There are certain members of his family that I’m not as pleased with right now but the reasons for that are private. Unfortunately, when you live in the public eye sometimes that spills out.
> 
> **Interviewer: Not even a hint?**
> 
> Altair: I assume you have family. Why don’t you tell me what you don’t like about them?
> 
> **Interviewer: [Laughs.] So, tell us about Ezio’s new show. What kind of thing should we expect to see?**  
> 

Altair abandoned his tie, his suit jacket and his nice shoes in his car. He put on some sneakers, unbuttoned most of his shirt and pulled a jacket out of the trunk. Desmond was sitting on the bench where they’d been meeting with less-and-less frequency. He was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his face a bland expression of disinterest.

“Hey,” Altair said. He started doing the stretches that made his body feel delightful and limber. “I didn’t think you’d make it.”

“Well,” Desmond said. He sat up enough to look at him. “It was this or stay in the house with Ezio frowning about my pajamas. He’s more obnoxious than the rest of you.”

“Desmond,” Altair said. They were relatively alone. Isolated enough that there weren’t any ears around to hear what he was about to say. The comfort of anonymity and lack of witnesses seemed important for Desmond. “You should got talk to someone.”

But his cousin only sighed. Desmond got up on his feet and threw his cup into the trash can next to the bench. His hands slid into his pockets, curled and bumpy underneath the thin cotton. “I have before. I can’t swear it really helped. I’m just not sure there are a lot of ways to say, I was told I was worthless so many times I believed it. This isn’t easy for me, Altair. They are going to find out why you’re attacking them. Everyone is going to find out why you’re attacking them. My Father is going to say something.” 

“Desmond—”

“Shut up and listen,” Desmond said. There was more anger in his face and voice than Altair thought possible. The dark circles under his eyes and the smell of lapsed self-care were off-set against that bristling anger. “It isn’t easy for me but I will survive, regardless of what happens. I understand why you’re doing this. I—have tried so hard to avoid this. I thought I was happier to walk away. I just wanted to stay away from them. Grandma said, _don’t let the fear of him make your choices for you_ but it has.”

Altair cupped his hand around Desmond’s neck and put their foreheads together. 

Desmond sighed, put his hand against Altair’s chest like he meant to push him away but didn’t. “I’ll go talk to my doctor. Will that make you feel better?” 

“Yes.”

Desmond sighed again and pushed him away. “Then I’ll go. Now let’s do this before I decide going back to sleep is more important.” 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Me [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  Ha, that’s rich. There will be one or more character attack against me in the media. People will care about it because I’ve been working hard to make sure they know who I am and because it doesn’t matter who you are if you have the right sort of story. I have the benefit of being an idiot orphan that people love to hate and they have the advantage of being beautiful, foreign and powerful. 
> 
> There has to be some kind of easily accessible social media that you’d be willing to get. If twitter is too public for you there are messaging programs. This E-mail bullshit is annoying. If you’re going to be my conscience you should be easier to get in touch with.
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  I have many things to say about the many unnecessary brutalities suffered by the Native Americans, not necessarily because they were stripped of their lands and forced onto reservations but because US history erases these atrocities. It’s understandable that the invading force wanted more land. It’s understandable that they went to war and committed heinous crimes to get it while feeling perfectly justified. These things have happened all across the globe. What is not okay is denying the truth by omitting it entirely. 
> 
> Thank you for the advice. If you have any family left that you have not enraged and you celebrate the holiday, I hope you enjoy it. Perhaps without spectacle.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  It’s only a week and a half until Thanksgiving. I’m assuming that you most likely live somewhere on the continental US. I would also assume that you celebrate Thanksgiving but I feel like that’s inviting disaster on myself. I’m sure you have something to say about Manifest Destiny and the white Americans forcing Native Americans onto reservations and stealing all their land. I’ll spare us both that conversation. If you are into national holidays, I hope you have a good one with whatever family you have. If not—stay inside on Black Friday.  
> 

Malik wasn’t planning on running into Peter again. He had purposefully shifted his schedule so he wasn’t in the library at the same time as normal. It wasn’t because he found Peter personally offensive because he had enjoyed having sex with the guy. (In fact, that was a major problem for him. He had enjoyed having sex with almost everyone he’d ever had sex with. Must be why he came so highly recommended.) It was an attempt to force himself to concentrate on his school work and stop being such an obviously easy lay.

Imagine his surprise when he ran into the obnoxiously good looking jerk in the lobby of the library. It was raining outside (which sucked more than normal since he didn’t have an umbrella with him) and the weather had turned the miserable sort of cold that would take him hours to get over. So he was whining about his fate (not worrying over Altair’s e-mails) when Peter walked in. 

“Hey,” Peter said as soon as he realized who Malik was. It was the ‘hey’ of some jerk who had slept with him and then gone to talk about how great the experience was on the internet. The hey of someone that had proven how attractive they were by bedding a slut. For that matter, how the hell had Malik become a reliable indicator of who was attractive? He couldn’t be a slut and shallow. (Well, he could because he was, but it didn’t make good sense.)

Malik had no intention of addressing Peter or saying anything about what he’d found on the internet and yet there he was saying, “Nine out of ten, would fuck again?”

Look at how Peter’s whole face blanched white at the words. Look at how he looked instantly humiliated at having been discovered and shame flooded back into his cheeks so they went rose-colored. He was a nice enough guy to have some sense of having fucked up. (That was refreshing.) “That’s good though. I mean, it’s not like it was ever a secret.”

“You’re a dick,” Malik said.

“You’re a shallow bitch,” Peter said.

“At least I’m actually good at sex.” This was not something Malik meant to say or should have said. The words themselves were just an advertisement of how much experience he had as well as an intentional, hurtful (and unnecessary) attack on Peter’s masculine pride. If he stayed a moment longer it would deteriorate further so he left before he could think of anything worse to say. 

It was still raining though. Still cold outside.

\--

son-of-no-one: what a delightful coincidence, it seems not one but two women have decided I fathered their children.(4h ago)

Son-of-no-one: This strange and wonderful coincidence is undoubtedly brought to you by the hand of God. Amazing that he only found two women willing to go through this shameful spectacle. (4h ago)

BestofThree: @son-of-no-one, perhaps you should have taken your own advice? Condoms save the world from more fools like you (4h ago)

EzioAuditore: @Bestofthree, imagine what the world would be if someone thought the same of your father. (4h ago)

BestofThree: @EzioAuditore, funny how some people currently think that of yours. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree and @EzioAuditore, let’s be honest. Your parents both know every word to ‘every sperm is sacred’ there is no chance they believe in condoms. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: Good thing my Grandma taught me about them before she died or I might have ended up with a wife I didn’t want. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: as to the matter at hand. I did not have sex with the blonde. I did engage in sexual activities with the other one.(3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: the one that was a supposedly devout Catholic girl that was saving herself for marriage but she “read that semen was good for the skin”. I think that was just an excuse. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: but, if you look her up, you’ll notice that her face does have a dewy glow to it, so I guess she was onto something. Shame the virginity thing didn’t stick as well. (3h ago)

BestofThree: You are a shameful pig. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, but I’m not a liar willing to make an ass out of myself trying to make money off yet another public scandal. So I still think I have the moral high ground (3h ago)

Lucy came (home) from work looking like it had been a day longer than most. Her hair was freed from its usual tight pony tail and her white shirt was unbuttoned halfway down to expose her white undershirt. She held out the tall cup of delicious manna with his name written across the side overtop a turkey whose feathers were made almost exclusively out of layered hearts. “Hard day?” she asked him when took the cup.

“Sleeping really takes it out of you,” he mumbled. “I have not been fired but I am not needed to attend. That was today’s development.”

Lucy let a breath out of her nose. Then she flopped back on the couch and put her feet up on the table. “What about your doctor’s appointment? You didn’t say anything and I was going to let you decide to tell me yourself but I’m impatient.”

“I now have medication to appease you and Altair.”

“That’s not why—”

Desmond interrupted her. “Relax. This isn’t the first time I’ve been anti-depressants. I am aware that you are only concerned for my well-being which is really nice because I’m not.” He took a sip of the coffee and let the sweet-warm-familiarity of it burn down his throat and spread through his belly. He closed his eyes and enjoyed it for a minute. (These simple little pleasures.) “Aren’t we supposed to be working on the Thanksgiving list?”

The abrupt squeal of a laugh interrupted the conversation. It was the ugly child of a witch’s cackle and a curling child’s giggle. Lucy was staring open-mouthed at her phone’s screen as she jerked up out of the easy slouch she’d been employing. “Oh fuck,” she said to the phone.

“Do I even want to know?”

“What a fucking asshole,” she said. But the grin on her face wasn’t the grin of a woman that was hell-bent on revenge for some slight against her sisters. (One could only assume that was the cause of her abrupt laughter.) “Fucking little Tommy. How does he get laid ever?”

“I think it’s because he’s always willing to give head.”

Lucy stared at _him_ like he was the insane one. This was interrupted only by the arrival of the very man in question (who looked annoyed and not tired). She turned to look at Altair and shook her head with a sour frown on her face.

“Oh shut up,” Altair said. 

“Sass is going to eat you alive,” Lucy said. 

“I’m sure she will,” Altair retorted. “While we wait for that, aren’t we supposed to be planning our Thanksgiving thing? Wasn’t that your idea?” He shrugged his jacket off his shoulders and threw it on the couch, pausing only long enough to slip his phone into his back pocket.

“We were. But, you make bad choices. You don’t get to pick,” Lucy told him. Then she dug her book out of space under the coffee table and flipped it open to the page where they’d been listing possible dishes for their Thanksgiving feast. She picked up her pen and glared at Altair as he stuck his tongue out at her. “But I heard your Grandma had some kind of pie that she made really well so you have to figure out how to do that.”

“Ha haha ha,” Altair said. 

“No she’s serious,” Desmond said. “We decided it would be good for you to learn how to do something useful.”

Lucy nodded. “Since you ruined all this clothes.”

“Since you ruined all my clothes,” Desmond agreed. 

“As long as you understand this is going to end with me burning a building down.” Then Altair sat on the floor rather than sit next to Lucy and peered across the table to read the list upside-down. “I hate cranberry sauce.”

“Suck it up, big baby,” Lucy said. “We still haven’t decided what kind of turkey based product we’re going to make.” She turned her head completely to look at Desmond and put her arm across the list with a perfectly childish maliciousness.

\--

> ### untitled
> 
> Allow me to explain something to you, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad.
> 
> Moral: _adj._ 1\. concerned with the principles of right and wrong behavior and the goodness or badness of human character. 2. holding or manifesting high principles for proper conduct.  
>  _noun_ 1\. a lesson, especially one concerning what is right or prudent, that can be derived from a story, a piece of information, or an experience. 2. a person's standards of behavior or beliefs concerning what is and is not acceptable for them to do.
> 
>  
> 
> It is _exceedingly_ obvious from your statements that you have absolute no idea what this word means. In fact, based on  repeated instances of this same behavior one can assume that you are too dense to be capable of learning. So please allow me to explain with the following mental exercise.
> 
> For a moment, please set aside your own deeply ingrained sexism and misogyny long enough to allow yourself to think of women as _human beings_. Once you have worked through your varying levels of hysterical denial of this idea (one that you seem continuously incapable of maintaining) please attempt to imagine this same situation from the opposite view point. 
> 
> You are no longer a rich, handsome, physically attractive man but a _woman_. Gone are the privileges that you enjoy: you are no longer respected simply by existing. You no longer enjoy a certain about of indulgent acceptance for your repeated, caustic slander against anyone that annoys you. Instead of being tolerated or even _celebrated_ for your intolerance your every objection is ignored, dismissed or openly mocked. You are no longer a powerful sexual creature. You are an _object_. You exist, in every facet of your being, for the pleasure of men. 
> 
> Assume that you attempt to find some middle ground between your own sexual impulses and the ingrained shame that society has forced on you for being born with a vagina. 
> 
> Then, while you’re imagining all of this, attempt to imagine that you have sex with a man. Imagine for a moment that for reasons that are entirely your own, you do not want to have penetrative sex with this man. Maybe you explain that you simply do not want, maybe you explain that your religion is against it, maybe you offer whatever excuse you feel is most likely to make your point known. Imagine, if you will, that your wishes are respected and you engage in a mutually satisfying sexual encounter. You part ways. The man you have had sex with gets to enjoy bragging about his conquest of you to everyone that will listen while you grapple with a wide variety of feelings.
> 
> Society is universally and solidly against you at this point. Even if you claim ownership over your body and sexuality and feel no personal shame for what you’ve done. Even if you enjoyed it and would do it again. Society has repeatedly, continuously filled your head with the idea that women simply do not behave in this manner. You are a filthy slut regardless.
> 
> Then, imagine that the private encounter between you and the man of your choosing becomes international knowledge. Not only that, but it is obvious that the man who is giving your secrets away openly _mocks_ them in a way that makes it clear he, like the rest of the world, feels you are a lying slut. Then if you can grasp what that would feel like (but, for the record, you _can’t_ ), try to imagine what it would feel like for this man to lay claim to exhibiting any sort of _moral high ground_ as justification for his behavior.
> 
> Furthermore, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, not only did you drag this woman’s name through the mud, you did so to further your own agenda. She, despite her claims that you fathered a child with her that you are so confident that you did not, is nothing but another attack against your own family in a battle you have been waging. This woman who you have humiliated with your words will never be allowed to forget what has happened. Not because she deserves it, but because _you_ needed fresh ammunition.
> 
> There is absolutely _nothing_ moral in your behavior, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Please refrain from using words that you _obviously_ do not understand. 

Kadar just stared at the screen. There was simply nothing else that anyone could say to that. He thought about playing the devil’s advocate and pointing out that the woman invited disaster on herself by trying to claim that Altair was her child’s father. (It was just that he had the feeling that not even the fact that they were related would save him from Malik’s wrath that stopped him.)

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Apologize.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  Sometimes, you remind me of my Grandmother. She would have skinned me alive. I wouldn’t even have been given the opportunity to apologize. Her vengeance would have been swift, merciless and public. 
> 
> I will not defend myself. 
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :
> 
> Apologize immediately for your behavior. Not to me. Not to your family—fuck knows what they did to piss you off and I don’t care at all at this point. Apologize with complete and utter sincerity to the woman that you openly mocked for your own gain.

Altair had burned three of his fingers, cut his thumb deep enough that it was still bleeding ten minutes later and was sitting at his table with nothing but disaster and failure (in pie tins) lying around in front of him. His whole table was covered in the blackened remains of what had been his Grandmother’s (sole) culinary masterpiece. The brittle, burnt crusts seemed like a perfect analogy for how he felt after spending most of a day trying to come close to figuring out how to make a God-damned pie and having nothing but blood and blisters to show for his efforts. 

He stabbed the knife he’d been using to cut the apples into the top of one of the pies and reached over to pull his Grandmother’s favorite cookbook across the table so he could look at her tiny little script. Her handwriting was permanently italicized, always leaning to the side with pretty little loops and twirls. 

Altair remembered how she liked to tell him that she went through a housewife craze when she was a teenager, before common sense overtook her again. How she’d learned how to cook and clean and volunteered to watch all of her family’s infants. Grandmother had a whole album of pictures of her with her thick-dark-hair pulled away from her face while she worked at perfecting baking the perfect pie in the massive kitchen of the old mansion. She had been beautiful at fifteen, a heartbreaker with an apron covering her pretty dress and dusty white flour all the way up to her elbows. 

Altair remembered her smile the best out of everything. That smile that was hard-won and so sincere it could erase any wound he’d suffered. Her voice was always a soft tone because she never had to raise her voice to make herself understood. Sometimes, he could remember sitting in her lap while she sat and read boring papers. Sometimes, he remembered her arm curled around his waist while he sat on her lap and ate his breakfast cereal while she read the paper and frowned about the stock market.

No-but-he remembered his Grandmother best in the greenhouse where she said, _don’t eat the flowers, Altair_. The air was thick, wet and _hot_ and the flowers were exotic and beautiful. Her delicate, slim fingers handled delicate stems and leaves. Her quick eyes and her smile approved of the labor of her hard work. She read him stories in the greenhouse and braided him flower crowns that sat crooked on his head while he rested against her side. His body had been massive and hers had been thin-and-frail. Her skin was white and thin and his was tanned and smooth. 

Sometimes (rarely, almost never), he remembered the smell of the awful cream they rubbed on her when she was dying. He remembered the stink of her deathbed and the way her eyes never seemed to focus and her mouth was chapped-and-dry with her cracked-and-splitting tongue trapped behind her pink gums. Those last months were long and burdened with terrible (awful, confusing) fear. But his Grandmother’s hands across his were the only thing he wanted. She rubbed his hair with her dying-fingertips and never-ever said to him ( _protect Desmond_ ) but always _remember me, remember what I taught you_.

Looking at a table full of failure, he didn’t feel like he’d done a God-damned thing to honor the woman that raised him.

\--

> [Video starts in Altair’s living room. Altair is sitting in a chair from the dining room with a printed out sheet of paper. Lucy is sitting next to him with her own sheet of paper.]
> 
> Altair: So, if you follow any of my social media you should know by now I did something stupid. We decided to re-enact the events _in case you missed them_. I’m going to be myself and Lucy is going to be playing the part of Sass Badger.
> 
> Lucy: I hate you.
> 
> Altair: We haven’t started yet. Ok—so, we’re going to start now. _Says something stupid on the internet_.
> 
> Lucy: [stands up, shoved Altair off the chair so he is no longer visible on camera and begins kicking him while his arms flail and he makes yelping noises. This continues for nearly thirty seconds.]
> 
> [video transitions to Altair sitting on a chair by himself with bandages made of toilet paper and poor colored bruises all over his face.]
> 
> Altair: I apologize for everything I’ve done. [looks to the side with exaggerated fear just seconds before Lucy shoves him off the chair again and the video goes grainy and black in time with Altair’s shout of fear.]
> 
> [Video stays black for a few seconds, comes back with just Altair looking much more serious.]
> 
> Altair: [licks lips.] Despite my attempts at levity, I understand the gravity of this situation. I am not incapable of empathy despite what Sass might think of me. What I said about the young woman was inexcusable regardless of how justified I felt in making those comments. I have been advised by many people to remove them from my feed and I have made the decision to leave them there. Not because I wish eternal shame upon the woman who is referred to in my intentionally condescending comments but because I feel that removing them would be an attempt to repair the damage I have done by removing the proof of ever having done it. Despite what you may have heard as a child, words _hurt_ just as deeply and just as enduringly as any sticks or stones. I have misused mine.
> 
> Altair: My comments are disgusting to a woman that did not deserve them. While I feel it is woefully inadequate, I am sorry. I was wrong. 

Desmond laughed because the alternative was worse. Altair didn’t give a shit about that woman. No amount of well-thought-out-vitriol was ever going to make him understand that what he’d done was unacceptable. Sass could fight that battle until the end of days and she would never force Altair into understanding that there were never acceptable losses in battle. Even his apology was an open assault on the Auditore family.

“Oh fuck,” he said when the video ended. His babysitters were absent and his apartment was quiet. Lucy was still at work. Altair was out filming something with Ezio that may or may not have been relevant to Thanksgiving. The irony of it was amazing considering Ezio never celebrated Thanksgiving and Altair only bothered to remember it existed whenever he found someone with already made food. 

Desmond was drinking because he could. He watched the video again, maybe twice, and tried to work out if it were possible to believe Altair was sincere. (Tried to imagine he knew nothing about what was happening and what he might have done last-year-this-time when he was still a real person.)

\--

> From: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]  
>  To: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I can’t help but feel like my idiot cousin neglected to give you the fair warning he gave everyone else. He has this tendency to forget that people can’t see what he’s thinking and we’re all supposed to just know how he arrived at his stupid conclusions. So he’s the warning you should have gotten in the beginning:
> 
> Grandma had this saying, “if there must be war, kill all that oppose you”. I think there were more words in it but the idea is that all crimes are permissible to get what you want. Altair was raised by this woman. You’ve read some stuff on her and you think she’s a great woman. She was an amazing woman. But she was a rabid animal when it came to getting her vengeance. He’s finishing what she started before she died. I should have kept my mouth shut, I should have lied to him when he found out—I should have told him not to bother. This is going to blow up. I’m not going to be the estranged cousin anymore. I’m going to be the cousin that nobody believed, the abuse victim that destroyed his family. It’s going to be a lifetime original drama, I swear to Christ. 
> 
> That’s not the warning, really. The warning is don’t side with Altair. At all. Ever. If they think you’re on his side they will not hesitate to use you against him. They might do it anyway. They’ve already called him a gay slut. That doesn’t seem like much of an insult unless you’ve seen our cousin’s impersonation of a gay man. Then you’d probably understand what sort of slander they are throwing his way. They also found women willing to sue him for paternity. That’s not a big deal unless you know he loses money and stocks from his inheritance if he has illegitimate children. It’s just stupid shit like that. This whole stupid family. They just can’t keep their mouths shut.

Reading the E-mail from Desmond in front of Leonardo turned out to be a mistake. Reading the e-mail before having to sit in a car and drive several hours to Leonardo’s house also proved to be a poor choice. Malik watched the bland scenery pass them by out of his window and tried to imagine what he’d do if he found out someone had hurt his brother.

He tried to plot it out. Exactly what he’d say and what he’d do.

“Is something wrong with your family?” Leonardo asked after twenty minutes of stagnant silence. “Were you right about that girl’s parents not letting her date Kadar?”

No. Malik cleared his throat and shook his head. “No. I haven’t heard about her. My Mom says Kadar’s been trying out being more faithful. He’s probably just working up to asking the girl out or something. Sorry, I was just thinking.”

“You are always thinking. You should think less.”

That was stupid advice. “ _You_ are always thinking.”

“I think of beauty and art and poetry. I think of magnificent marvels of modern engineering. I think of death and destruction and the simple, undeniable beauty of a well made machine—regardless of how it’s used—but even in my most depraved imagining, I could not imagine the depths of unhappiness you can think of in a few seconds.” Leonardo sighed. 

Yes well, Leonardo imagined ideas and ideals. Malik was stuck with real people and sticky problems with no solutions. He was stuck with uncomfortable knowledge he probably wasn’t supposed to have. “So where is your Mom going that you didn’t want to go with her?”

“Family reunion. They are stressful and tiring without the added burden of holiday stress. It’d rather keep you company. Unless you plan to obsess over this problem the whole weekend and then I may leave you in my empty house and go deal with my angry aunts.” There was a smile in his voice that made Malik roll his eyes.

“As long as you’re back in time to take me back to school,” Malik said. “So what have you been doing with your semester off?” Because it seemed a far preferable conversation to have.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, Altair.
> 
> Enjoy it as best you are able.
> 
> My sister is coming.
> 
> Happy Thanksgiving, Ezio. I wish you’d come. I made pie
> 
> Is it edible?
> 
> surprisingly.
> 
> Enjoy. I will see you at our funeral.

Altair slept on Desmond’s couch on Wednesday night because Lucy demanded that he be there to experience all the joy that cooking all day brought from the very first moment. He didn’t wake up until nine-thirty (far later than he expected) and by that time, Lucy had already been awake long enough to shower and dress and rouse Desmond from his nearly constant death-like-sleep. 

Desmond was wearing his (new) jeans with a belt and no shirt, standing in the kitchen scrubbing potatoes clean in the sink. Lucy was mostly gawking at him while she pretended to read some recipe from the back of a box of seasoning of some kind. The turkey—unfortunate guest of honor that it was—was sitting in its plastic prison on a roasting pan on the table. Lucy managed to stop lusting after Desmond long enough to say, “we decided you get to pull the disgusting crap out of the center of the turkey.”

“You hate me. That is what you are saying.”

The day was spent in alternating patterns of being busy and doing absolutely nothing but eating junk. Lucy taught Desmond how to make sweet bread (that seemed mostly like an excuse to throw flour on him and laugh) and Altair sat at the table peeling apples while they argued about green bean casserole. Desmond was laughing while Lucy shouted at him about the disgusting worthlessness of green bean casserole. 

Altair had to peel boiled eggs and scrape the insides out while Desmond mashed the potatoes. (He was wearing a shirt by that point but it was tight and short sleeved and Lucy sat without any attempt at pretending she wasn’t licking her lips in lust.) 

The table was set by four and the food was laid out on it with grand extravagance far too gluttonous for three people. Still, Lucy looped her arm around Desmond’s waist and the other around Altair’s neck (dragging him down) and kissed each of them on the temple. “Good job, boys. Now we eat!”

\--

son-of-no-one: I am thankful for people that make my life bright, and for the ones that don’t give up no matter what. #thanksgiving #family (3m ago)

Son-of-no-one: make a family of people that see you for the person you are and who love you for that person. Everyone else can get the fuck out. (10m ago)

Son-of-no-one: This holiday season, remember that your family should be people that love and support you. DNA does not give anyone the right to make you feel shitty about yourself. (10m ago)

The picture that Altair posted was a terrible attempt at selfie with Lucy holding the camera, Altair sticking his tongue out with his middle finger held up in front of his face and the third person (who he assumed had to be Desmond) smashed between them with a turkey leg in front of his face. Lucy had her middle finger up and a smile across her face that was sharp enough to cut knives. 


	25. Chapter 25

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> See, if you were half as convincing in your acting as you were in your completely insincere apologies you might still have a career in film. You’re a dick. 

It was still dark when Altair woke up. The silence of isolation made him feel hollow and small. The memory of Desmond’s slow-burning laughter had sustained him through the whole of Thanksgiving but the dreary blackness of the holiday hangover robbed him of the comfort of _hope_. 

He wrapped himself up in a sheet and went out to sit on his balcony. The city air was not fresh but crisp with early morning chill. The darkness was incomplete, rendered gray in place of black by the murky streetlights far below him. A few lonely cars passed by on the street in the distance and the sound of their equally unfortunate lack of sleep provided a soundtrack to his quiet pondering. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I wish I knew who you were and what I did. Not as quantifiers about whether or not your opinion matters. You’re impossible to please with impossible standards that I will never live up to. I just want to remember why you bothered with me in the first place when everything about me offends you in some way or another.
> 
> Because, I’ve got to tell you, Sass, you’re going to wear yourself out listing my every fault. They are many and constant.

Malik was up-before-dawn despite the fact that he hated everything about being awake before the sun. It was an automatic thing his body did (without his permission) the long-standing habit that he had learned in adolescence that he could not seem to force himself unlearn. Most days (and nights) he could simply roll over and go back to sleep. Leonardo’s bed wasn’t big enough for two and Malik couldn’t figure out why he’d ever agreed to sleep there in the first place. It was need for space and a relief from the shared body heat that drove him out of bed. 

It was stupidity that made him check his e-mail since his laptop was sitting open on the guest bed in the other room. He sat there rubbing the stubble on his cheeks reading and rereading Altair’s stupid message (trying to figure out what the hell the man was even going on about). 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I simply don’t feel like this today.

Altair was still out on his balcony, appreciating the grayness of the dawn finally bringing color back to the sky. The crisp air was sneaking under his thin sheet and making his skin crawl up into gooseflesh. Absent any great motivation to start his day, he had simply decided to stay and tolerate the chill. 

(And to think, of course, about what he planned to do next.) 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> If God existed and life was not cruel, neither one of us would have to deal with the day. But there is no god, life is miserable and we cannot avoid the things that make us unhappy. 
> 
> Why are you awake this early anyway?

Malik migrated to the kitchen when it became obvious that despite his best attempts he would not be able to go back to sleep. There was plenty of food that was easy to heat-and-eat in the kitchen. A variety of things that required little to no effort on his part to consume. So he heated himself some waffles in the toaster and found jelly in the fridge that seemed like it would be tolerable. 

He set up his laptop on the counter and glanced through the assignments that persisted half-finished. It was his intention to work on them but he still found himself clicking back on his e-mail. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> We all have our habits from childhood that are hard to break. Mine involves waking up too damn early and regretting everything. 
> 
> To answer your question: considering how many people you have had sex with, I cannot begin to imagine that your ego suffers in any way. You cannot seriously be confused as to how you managed to get someone to have sex with you regardless of how their opinion of you is changed by your behavior afterwards.
> 
> Have you considered that God does exist and it is God, not life, that is inherently cruel? 

Altair barked a cough-like-laugh when he got the message. It was after he’d abandoned his place on the balcony to take a shower and get dressed. His hair was wet and long and annoying even after he scrubbed it dry with a towel. The clothes he’d pulled out of his closet were laying across his bed but he sat on the edge (naked and vaguely damp) while he read the short reply. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’d rather believe there is no god than believe in a cruel one. If there is no god, than it is simple bad luck that made my Mother, my Father, my baby cousin, my Grandfather and my Grandmother all died before I was thirteen years old. If god exists, he deserves nothing from me.

Malik nodded at his screen as if Altair were capable of seeing him do it. (As if the man even needed or wanted his approval of that same idea.) Even if he agreed, (which he did, more or less), there was no easy way to convey that sentiment without giving away something about himself that he simply was not ready to set free from his chest. (But it was safest, here, with Altair who didn’t care.)

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Claudia is in the city.
> 
> She is unhappy.
> 
> I hope this was part of your plan.
> 
> Don’t flinch when she hits you, it makes her hit harder.

Altair resisted the urge to roll his eyes at the warning. Claudia was not the most violent of the Auditore siblings (Federico most likely was). She was skinny and small in comparison to the rest of them. More importantly, he didn’t think she was going to be hunting him down through the city just for the chance to hit him. (Well, she might have been but she seemed like the sort that would use her words first.)

He let himself into Desmond’s apartment was happily surprised to see his cousin already awake and making breakfast out of the leftovers of yesterday’s extravagant meal. Desmond was even dressed in clothes that he hadn’t worn the day before and his hair was damp in a way that suggested he took a shower. Altair hugged him with both arms and clapped him on the back. “Did you finally have sex with Lucy?”

“You’re a pig,” Desmond said. He shoved Altair back. “No I didn’t but if you repeat that a little louder, she’d probably hear you. She’s taking a shower.”

“Lucy already knows she wants to have sex with you. It won’t be a surprise to her,” Altair said. Then he picked up one of the potato pancakes that Desmond made out of leftovers and started eating it. “Claudia’s in the city.”

“Protect your balls,” Desmond said. He turned his attention back to the turkey he was heating up in the pan. “What sort of backlash are you expecting for the tweets this time?”

Altair shrugged. “I think if Claudia’s coming, they’re probably not going to say anything until they hear from her. Hey, Desmond.”

“What?” He was too busy moving the turkey around the pan to give Altair’s his full attention and by the time he managed to tear his gaze away, Lucy was walking into the kitchen wearing nothing but a bra and her jeans carrying her shirts over her shoulder. She was frosty pale all over her body (seriously, never had he seen a whiter person) with a surly frown on her face. She reached up and pinched off a piece of the potato pancake in Altair’s hand and ate it with a daring smile on her face. “Be nice children,” Desmond said.

“He was talking to you,” Lucy said.

“Put a shirt on,” Altair said, “I don’t want to see your breasts.”

Her response was pull her bra down and flash him. Desmond turned around in time to see her sticking her tongue out at him with her bra pulled back up and he sighed. Lucy was pink with achievement. “Are we running today?”

“Yes,” Altair said. “We probably all gained ten pounds yesterday.”

“Sure,” Desmond said. He handed Lucy a plate and a fork and she sorted through the reheated leftovers to find something she wanted to eat.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Why haven’t I heard from you in a few days?
> 
> I’ve been reading.
> 
> You’ve given up masturbating and you’ve taken up reading?
> 
> Who told you I gave up masturbating?
> 
> Mom. She mentioned that you hadn’t used the tissues she bought you
> 
> Maybe she meant I didn’t have a cold anymore.
> 
> No, I’m pretty sure she knows you’ve stopped masturbating too
> 
> Well, as long as everyone knows.
> 
> They do
> 
> But seriously. Is everything okay?
> 
> Yeah.

The sun had finally come out by the time Leonardo emerged from the room. He appeared in his baggy orange-red sleep pants with his hair in knots and his eyes squinting at the sunlight. The print of his hand across his face was still red across his freckles as he blinked at Malik as if he simply could not reason out what he was seeing. After a moment of this repeated blinking, he shuffled onward to the fridge, rifled through it to find something to eat and then retreated out of the kitchen again with his prize tucked under his arm. 

“I was looking forward to fucking you this morning,” Leonardo called on his way back up the steps.

“Not like I’m doing anything important right now,” Malik called back. Except trying to figure out his brother’s noncommittal response and why he was vaguely hurt by it. 

Leonardo shuffled back to the doorway to squint at him some more. “Can I fuck you right here?”

“This is the kitchen,” Malik said.

“It will make eating here in the morning more entertaining.” Because everyone needed to have the memory of having had sex with someone on their Mother’s counter. Leonardo stuck his lower lip out in a way that was the opposite of sexually appealing. “Please?”

Malik sighed. “Fine,” he said.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I believe you’re meant to take comfort in believing that those you love will go to heaven where you will be eventually reunited with them. 

The only trouble with believing nonsense like that was trying to reconcile the idea that all of his family was waiting for him in heaven with the idea that half of his family probably wouldn’t have made the cut. (Altair, for instance, was not going to get admittance. He was filled with sins from every religion.)

“What did you want earlier?” Desmond asked. They were at a pausing point in the game they’d been playing for the better part of an hour (after Lucy left for work). Altair had taken advantage of the lull to check his messages and discovered that nothing of note had happened at all. The Auditore family had yet to strike back for his new slights. (The silence was indeed more troubling.)

“Oh. I—” Need your permission to tell the whole world that you were emotionally abused by your asshole of a father and then blamed for it by your dick relatives. That wasn’t too much to ask, really. 

Desmond was too smart. He sighed at Altair’s failure to answer him and rubbed his fingers against his fresh-shaven cheeks as he nodded in slow motion. “You want to tell everyone.”

“No,” Altair said, “I don’t _want_ to.”

“Tell me your plan, all of it. Tell me how you’re going to break them and I’ll think about it.” Then he reached forward to turn the game system off and turned his whole body so he was looking right at Altair. There was still color in his face (a better sign than days before when he was gray all the time) but it didn’t look sturdy enough to withstand much.

Altair ran his tongue across his lips and took in a deep breath before he started. “I have to get Claudia on our side first—”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> My girl cousin is coming to beat me up. If she hits me, am I allowed to hit her back? I’m not clear on the rules here. Because on the one hand, she’s a girl and I’m almost a foot taller than her. On the other hand, she’s meaner than her brothers.

Malik had relocated to the living room after sex. Leonardo had gone back to bed. He had managed to do a portion of the reading he was meant to be doing and even completed a paragraph and a half of the paper he was working on. The rest of his time was spent frowning at his phone wondering why his idiot brother wasn’t acting normal.

It was indecision (and confusion) that finally forced him to call his Mother. She was off today (since it was the day after Thanksgiving) and most likely scrubbing some part of the house or indulging in restful contemplation. The phone rang three times before she answered it with a soft-toned hello.

“Hi Mom,” he said. 

There was a nearly audible sound of relief in the silence on the phone just before she said, “hello son.”

The two of them were terrible at impractical conversations. His Mother was pragmatic and Malik was blunt. “So, what’s going on with Kadar? He hasn’t sent me anything in days and then today he just said he was reading and that everything was fine.” Which of course meant that Malik had every right to be worried.

The sound of a door closing seemed to be confirmation of every one of his worries. The dim solitude of quiet surrounding his mother meant that Kadar was nowhere within hearing range of their conversation. “I believe that you brother has finally realized he has never questioned what path he will follow. He has never had reason to doubt his choices before and now that one has finally presented itself, he is trying to understand what he wants.”

“This is about the girl,” Malik said. 

“In some ways, yes. It is also about Kadar realizing that he will soon be a man and trying to find his way.”

“Kadar won’t be a man soon,” Malik said. But the denial was stupid. His brother was almost seventeen. He wasn’t that far from graduating high school and becoming a legal adult. It wasn’t inconceivable that he stumbled onto some deeper questions than where the nearest and cheapest tacos were sold.

His Mother was kind enough not to laugh at him. “Kadar will never be the sort of man that you are, Malik. You were never a child. You were always an old man, reasoning things with your head when you should have listened to your heart. But you protected your brother from the same fate, you were so adamant that he should get to be a child and stay one as long as possible that you’ve tricked yourself into thinking he will never grow up.”

In his defense, Kadar made it easy to believe that he could Peter Pan himself out of adulthood. “Mom, if that girl’s parents find out about me—”

“That isn’t our concern. Your brother will do what he feels is right. Our concern is to be there for him regardless of where his path takes him. This will be a test of our strength, Malik. Kadar feels that whichever path he chooses, he will be betraying one of us. We have to prove him wrong, the way Kadar and I proved you wrong when you thought the worst of us.”

“But that’s stupid,” Malik said. “I don’t care what he believes in. He’s my brother.”

“Be patient when he comes to you with questions, Malik. You know he will.” She let the words sink in and Malik sighed unhappily. Kadar had always come to him with questions—about how things worked and why things happened and what things meant. He’d always followed after him with two hands on Malik’s shirt tails and his mouth full of inane wondering little thoughts. Answering Kadar’s constant questions had annoyed him every moment of their shared lives. 

“Ok,” Malik said. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> If you are being assaulted, it is generally acceptable to defend yourself. However, remember to use minimal force. Probably best if you didn’t hit your cousin, however. It seems that adding assault and battery to your list of sins would not assist you in gaining the popular approval of strangers.
> 
> Another option would be to stop doing whatever it is that is moving your girl cousin to violence.

Desmond did not deflate (as he was prone to doing now days) but sit with his elbows to his knees and his hands laced together in front of him. His face was expressionless in a unique way that Altair had never really taken the time to worry about before. Desmond had the ability to maintain neutrality in the face of almost anything and it hadn’t ever been a skill worthy of note. (But it was a mask, of course. To cover up things Desmond did not want to share.)

“I need to know what you want me to say if it comes up,” Altair said. It seemed especially cruel to say. There was no better alternative to asking outright what Desmond wanted (something he had been avoiding due to the ragdoll consistency of Desmond’s life as of late). “And I need to know what to do with William.”

Desmond nodded but he didn’t say anything. His voice was quiet (but steady) when he said, “I’ll have to think about it. I don’t have an answer for you now.”

“Yeah,” Altair said. “Are you going to come running today?”

“No, I’m supposed to go do—whatever Ezio wants to do.” Desmond rubbed the back of his neck and then cleared his throat. “You’re really going to do that to Mama Maria, knowing that family is the most important thing to her?”

“Yes,” Altair said. 

A half-grin crossed Desmond’s face and then was gone again. “I think it will be a long time before you are invited back.”

“No. The Auditores understand justice better than most. Any wound is forgivable if it’s well-earned.” And in any case, Altair would not be asking for forgiveness. He looked at his phone again and found that he had gotten no new messages. “First, I have to get Claudia on my side. So I’m going to go walk around and wait for her to find and attack me.”

Desmond let out a soft breath through his nose. “Good luck.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> You could tell me
> 
> You know, whatever it is
> 
> Even if it’s about me
> 
> Do you not believe in a god because you don’t think one exists or because if there is one, you failed and you hate yourself because of it?
> 
> I will have to send you a mail

Leonardo did not happen to be in the room but was laying across the couch reading a book (in what Malik thought might have been Italian). He only tipped his head back to look at Malik because of the noise that the phone made when it received a text message. “That is not a good face. All of your faces, none of them are good.”

“Do you think I hate myself?” Malik asked.

Leonardo hummed a moment. He slid his long finger into a space in his book and set it against his lap. “I think hate is too strong a word to describe it. You are not content with yourself. But I prefer to think of that as a constant state of growth rather than personal insecurity.” 

“Do you believe in God?”

“I believe in infinite possibilities. I do not have any personal faith but I don’t go so far as to say no god exists.” Leonardo opened his book again. “Do you?”

No. Malik huffed. “I’m going to take a walk.”

“Not sure you’ll find him out there, but best of luck to you.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I feel I am too late to be of assistance in this situation. I hope that you chose not to have sex with the woman in the bathroom seeing how you are currently being sued for paternity by two other women. It’s just tactless to tempt fate. 
> 
> _Altair wrote:_  
>  Times like this remind me that you still do not have a messaging program. Since you’re more invested in my behavior than I am, I think you should be on hand to answer the important questions. Such as, do I have enough time to sleep with this woman who keeps smiling at me from two tables over? Is it tasteless to have sex in a bathroom of a nice restaurant while you wait for the main course to be delivered? 

Altair went to see the small army of lawyers that had been his Grandmother’s favorites. It was a brief meeting that tucked him into a nicely carpeted room filled with expensive looking things where people like him (drowning in money) would feel secure. The meeting was brief (because Altair preferred them that way) with the most notable thing that happened being the way the secretary at the front desk (a woman he did not recognized) looked at him with open concern when she saw his jeans and his hoodie. 

She had said, “are you lost, sir?” and Altair had assured her that he wasn’t. Everything after that was informative but boring. He put his lawyers on the task of finding the best and most worthwhile foundations dealing with child abuse. Then they had to talk about what amount of money would be worthwhile to give and how it would change his own worth and whether or not they should make a big deal of it.

Altair escaped back on to the street feeling stuffy and decided to walk rather than catch a cab. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Do not worry. I did not have sex yet today. 

Malik was so relieved to hear that. That must have been why he decided to walk around the entire neighborhood again after he paused long enough to read it. While he walked he tried to think of a way to answer Kadar. He meant to think about the answer the question but he kept thinking about what he _should_ say instead of what he would. He tried to work out what to say to assure Kadar that whatever he believed, everything would be fine. 

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> Desmond
> 
> Where are you?
> 
> Actually, where do you want Claudia to find and attack you?
> 
> I think she’s trying to bully Ezio into telling her. He keeps frowning at his phone.
> 
> Since this is all part of your plan, why not make it easy?
> 
> I’m about to meet Lucy to run
> 
> Then I’ll be going back to my place
> 
> If she catches you running at least you’ll have a headstart.
> 
> Hopefully she won’t. There’s a guy with a camera watching me. 

Lucy was wearing her running clothes when she finally arrived at their starting bench. Her hair was loosened for her usual work ponytail and she was wearing her new running shoes rather than the sturdy black ones she wore to work. She was frowning, not smiling at how there was only two and not three of them. “He decided not to come?”

“Ezio dragged him out to run errands or something. They weren’t back yet.” Altair wasn’t sure if Ezio was hiding Desmond or himself from his sister but it seemed that his intent involved pairing up with the least social cousin and hiding. “It’s just me and you and some guy with a camera that’s been waiting for me to do something interesting. You should wave.” Altair pointed her in the right direction and Lucy frowned over toward where the man was standing.

“Fuck him,” Lucy said. Then she started doing the stretches that she insisted were mandatory before running and slapped him when he didn’t immediately follow her example. She had also bullied him into getting pants better suited for running and a decent pair of shoes for their jogs. (Jogs that were quickly becoming races to see who could outrun the other fastest and for the longest length of time.) “Ready?”

“If you are,” Altair said. His newest strategy involved him allow Lucy to outpace him at first and gradually getting faster until he caught up to her. This allowed him an extra burst of speed to beat her in the last few minutes (but the real reason he did it was for the dramatic flair). It only worked about sixty percent of the time. The other forty percent, he had to deal with her triumphant crowing and her awful victory dance.

\--

> FROM: Malik [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> I do not believe in any god. I believe that mankind created the idea of god so that they could cope with terrible loss and explain things that their limited understanding of the world could not. It is easy to feel very small when the world is very large and in an effort to balance the scale, mankind created god(s) to give meaning to their brief, painful and terrifying lives. They created a cruel and fickle god that cannot love all people but only the ones that follow the narrow rules assigned to each religion.
> 
> I wasn’t born thinking this. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide that I believed in nothing. I knew that I was attracted to men since forever. I knew that I wasn’t _right_. I did not always know what kind of not right I was but I knew it well enough to be ashamed of myself. I tried to reconcile my lingering belief in god with the inhumane notion that any deity would create me as I was only to force me to live in fear and shame of myself.
> 
> You say that I hate myself but I don’t anymore. I hated myself when I was younger. I punished myself as often as I could—in every way I could think of. I didn’t allow myself friends. I did not play sports. I did not go to parties. I did not _want_ material things. I studied and I prayed. The year I turned thirteen, I tried to fast indefinitely because I had convinced myself that as long as I could concentrate on being hungry I would not have time to feel anything else. 
> 
> When I decided there was no god, I felt like I was no longer obligated to punish myself for being born the way I was. Then I hated myself because I had convinced myself that our Mother would rather believe in her god than love me. You know how that ended. 
> 
> Every reason I hate myself comes from religion. Every reason I am ashamed comes from religion. It is necessary, not optional, for me to divorce myself from belief in order to live. If I had held on a moment longer, I would have convinced myself I was better off dead than living in perpetual shame and self-hatred. 
> 
> My choices should not affect yours, Kadar. Regardless of what you believe or do with your belief, I love you. Mother loves you. There is nothing that you could do that would ever change this.

Malik was exhausted in the aftermath of walking around for two hours and writing out his feelings. He found Leonardo in his workshop working on piecing together a pair of what looked like wings. He was wearing the same pants he’d slept in the night before without a shirt. The backs of his shoulders were freckled like his cheeks. “Want to go get something to eat?”

“I’d rather stay in—can’t you make something? Didn’t you say your mother was insistent on forcing you to learn how to cook? Make me something Syrian.”

“That might necessitate a trip to the store,” Malik said. 

“Luckily, I have a car and money.”

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> So I’m bringing Desmond to your place?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> We should be there within the half hour then.

Lucy had followed him home because it was mutually agreed that while keeping Desmond in his natural habitat allowed him all the feelings of comfort and love, they were all incredibly sick of his unhappily small place. Altair’s had the benefit of being large, well lit, well-stocked and well-cleaned. He had multiple bathrooms, multiple bedrooms and floor to ceiling windows in the part of his condo that was meant to be used as a living room. (It was primarily, a step-down into a bunch of couches with a TV that he rarely ever had time to use.) 

“Taking a shower,” she said as soon as they got inside. She took her overnight (a useless thing to call the bit of luggage she had been living out of for some time now) with her as she headed toward his nearest bathroom. “Try not to get beat up by your girl cousin while I’m not there to protect you.”

“Haha,” Altair said back. “Try not to fall in the shower and break your hip.”

“Weak!” Lucy shouted from down the hall. 

Altair went to the kitchen to find something to eat. He tipped his head down so he could run cold water over it from the tap. His hair was too long on the top and the sweat from running made it sticky and gross across his forehead. The hand towels (always replenished at the end of the week, like magic) were stacked by the sink ever since the woman who cleaned his condo figured out what he was really using them for. He grabbed one and rubbed his face dry and scrubbed at his hair. 

The pantry was overwhelmed with food and his fridge was equally full of possible things to eat. He picked through his options, looking for something that didn’t require a lot of effort to eat. There was a bowl of fruit on his counter that looked reliably ripe so he plucked an apple out of it and rinsed that off. Altair was half way through eating the apple and checking to see if he’d gotten any new messages. (Sadly no, but he checked regardless.)

His door opened while he was reading through the updates. He shouted, “in the kitchen!” without bothering to wait for Ezio to ask where he’d gone. He found an article about the woman who said she was having his baby and how she felt personally victimized by him (which was rich coming from a liar) and how the test results would prove her correct in the end. (Not a chance.) It had some interesting facts (that were irrelevant) about the likelihood of an unplanned pregnancy as the result of the failure of all manner of contraceptives. (But not any news on how this woman got pregnant through her face.) 

The sound of a wooden handle scraping across the metal tin made him turn his head but he barely saw more than a flash of dark-hair and red-lips before Claudia hit him with the blunt round end of a large wooden spoon. “What?” she demanded as she hit him again, “is,” this hit landed across his left arm and not the damp fabric of his shirt that did a piss poor job protecting him from the blows. He reflexive raised his arm to keep her from landing another blow against his side or back and she grabbed him by the left wrist. “ _your_ ” was nearly a screeching wail along with another blow landed hard against his upper arm, “problem?”

“Stop hitting me!” he shouted back at her. He took a step back but she took a step forward and her claw-like nails were digging into his skin hard enough to leave welts and draw blood. “Claudia!”

“What gives you the right to be an asshole?” she screamed back at him, every word punctuated with a swift and stinging crack of the wooden spoon across his bare skin. The hits were direct and hateful, clearly meant to hurt him and if he’d had a moment to think about it he might have been thankful that she’d always been gentle with him before. “What imagined wound have you suffered?”

Altair was trying to shove her away from him but she held on and he was crippled by the echoing notion that stomped around his head that he needed her as an ally and even if he didn’t, she was a _girl_. “Would you stop?” he yelled at her. Every step he took to evade her made her fingernails dig in harder.

“No!” Claudia shouted. She was so absorbed in trying to tear the skin off his lower arm to keep him still that she didn’t see Lucy come up behind her. Lucy was a streak of pale skin and wet hair, wearing nothing but a damp shirt and a pair of underwear. She grabbed the spoon out of Claudia’s hand when she reared her arm back to hit him again. Once Lucy had it, she pulled Claudia back by the hair and threw her onto a chair. Every muscle in Lucy’s body was standing out as her cheeks went pink and she put herself bodily between him and this new threat. 

“Ow,” Altair said. 

Lucy spared only a glance to look at the raised red welts up and down his arm before Claudia was getting back on her feet. She was red with rage and hurt (of course she was) mouth open and the whole long line of words about to come falling out (and none in English) but Lucy smacked her across the face with the spoon before she could manage. 

Claudia’s whole face went red with rage in the split second before that indignity and the moment when she decided to attack this unknown person. Lucy seemed to realize the moment the fight was inevitable because she threw the spoon on the ground and put her fists up. 

“No,” Altair said but he was a half second too late. Lucy didn’t even wait to get hit, she punched Claudia first and the two of them were fighting bare-knuckles (to the death) in his kitchen, knocking over chairs and shouting whore-and-bitch at one another. “No,” Altair said again. He waited until Lucy fell back a step and then got an arm around her and picked her up off her feet. He turned her so she was facing mostly away from Claudia and put his hand out to stop her. “Listen!” he shouted. 

“Let me go,” Lucy hissed at him. 

“Fucking whore,” Claudia snapped at her. “Let her go, we will settle this!”

“I know what happened to Desmond!” Altair shouted at Claudia.

Then it stopped. Everything in the room went peacefully still and quiet. Even Lucy, shower damp and furious, was still where he held her against his hand. Even his heart (for a single beat) and Claudia’s furious face. The raised red weal of split skin on her cheek and the bruise forming across her jaw and the blood at the edge of her mouth did nothing at all to distract from the white-leeching-shame that drained all the color from her face. Her fists slumped slowly to her sides and her breath came out in a low pant.

“Everything?” Claudia asked.

“Everything he’s been willing to share,” Altair said. “And I know what your family did.” He loosened his grip on Lucy when she elbowed him in the chest. Rather than leave (or try to fight again, as he thought she might) she circled around behind him and yanked his shirt up to look at the red-and-painful skin of his back and side. 

Claudia nodded. “Then I admire your restraint. But if you intend to break my Mother, you must do more than throw petty insults at her children. If you want an apology for what was done, you have to force her to admit the truth. To this day, my Father and my brother do not believe what Desmond said was true.”

Altair nodded. He tugged his shirt back down when Lucy slid to the side and scooped the spoon up off the floor. She held it in her white-knuckled fist as she glared at Claudia with easy, open, _honest_ hate.

“What happened to Desmond was wrong,” Claudia said. “What my family did afterward is shameful. I only just found out about any of it this year. If you want justice, I will help you.”

Altair didn’t want justice, but he was willing to settle for it. “Great,” he said.

Lucy smacked Claudia across the upper arm with the spoon and then smiled at her face. “He might be too scared of you to fight, but I’m not. Remember that.” Then she threw the spoon into the sink and left the room. 

“Who is that?” Claudia asked when Lucy was mostly gone.

“Desmond’s not-girlfriend.”

Claudia laughed. “Perhaps we should just send her to Federico. He would be begging for forgiveness, I think, by the time she was finished with him.” 

No, Lucy would kill Federico and William and possibly Giovanni as well. When she was done with it, she’d pile the bodies at Mama Maria’s feet and light them on fire. It was better for everyone if Lucy’s involvement in the plot for justice kept her as far from the Auditore family as possible. “That’s not a good idea,” Altair said. “But, Desmond likes her.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> So, she found me. Don’t feel too bad for me. It only hurts whenever I move or breath. (Please don’t publish this.)

Malik had reached a low point in preparing dinner and Leonardo had wandered off to change out of the clothes he’d worn to the store. It was a good enough reason to find his laptop and check his messages (hoping to see one from his brother). 

Then he was left standing in front of the counter looking at the picture of Altair.

Altair was sitting on a kitchen chair, half turned away from the camera so that the full length of his back, side and arm were visible. His right arm was laying on the table in front of him as he hung his head forward. His skin—normally flawless looking in a distinctly obnoxious way—was mottled with red marks and faint bruises, the worst of which were lines across his arms that were a faint bluish color. His right arm was not fully visible but the end of bloody scratches could be seen nonetheless.

“Well shit,” Malik said to the computer screen. Then he was left with a paradoxical feeling of outrage that someone had inflicted that amount of damage onto the jerk and the smug notion that Altair probably deserved it. (He didn’t, though.)

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> As long as it only hurts when you breathe. I did tell you that you could defend yourself, perhaps I would have advised it more strongly if I had known that your cousin had such a strong arm. Try applying a topical pain relief cream.  
> 

Desmond had walked into the kitchen while Altair was still fixing the chairs so they were upright. Claudia had a towel full of ice pressed against her face and Lucy had yet to reappear. Ezio was laughing and Desmond was grinning just before they got to the doorway of the kitchen and both of them stopped with sudden silence.

Altair had taken his shirt off because the clinging damp material aggravated the red welts. 

“Did you hit my sister?” Ezio demanded. (Because of course he did.) He went over to Claudia and pulled her hand away from her face to see the split across her cheek and the darkening bruise on her jaw. Her lips were fattened from getting hit and the start of a bruise was filling in the space below her left eye. “Son of a bitch.”

“I did not hit her,” Altair said.

“Well, you should have,” Desmond said. He just looked tired as he pushed his hands into his jacket pockets and leaned against the doorjamb. 

“Lucy hit her,” Altair explained. 

“What did I do?” Lucy asked. She appeared looking perfectly angelic in a white shirt and loose pants. Her blonde-blonde hair was hanging around her face. There wasn’t a mark on her. Her victory had been so absolute as to warrant that insult against Claudia. “Oh that,” she said with a motion at Claudia. “Yes. I did that.”

Ezio stared at Lucy with open shock (and no idea how to respond). 

Claudia licked her lips. “Relax. It is done. I am here with you now.”

Desmond rubbed his thumb against the center of his forehead with a sigh. “This is a mess,” he said. “Look at you.” He motioned toward Altair. “This is assault. This is just the beginning. You—can’t do what you were planning. Federico will find you and he will not be so constrained.”

“What?” Ezio asked. He half turned away from his sister so he was facing inward on the inadvertent circle they made with their bodies. “What are you planning?”

“It’s not what I’m going to do. It’s what Claudia and Ezio are going to do. First, I’m going to announce why I’m angry—indirectly—and then I’m going to ruin Christmas. Claudia or Ezio, you have to convince Cristina to come here and to bring the baby with her.” Because nothing less would embarrass and enrage Mama Maria than having her first grandchild taken from her on his first Christmas on the very same year she hosted all the extended Auditore family. 

Ezio uttered a breath oath. Claudia nodded approvingly. 

“Classy,” Lucy said. “I’ll protect you.”

Desmond was shaking his head. “I’m going to lay down.” 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Today has been shit. I may be a little drunk. I may be on my balcony. I may be typing all this on my phone with expert thumbs. I love this phone. My back hurts.

Malik was back in the guest room after dinner and rousing game of watch Leonardo get bored watching Jeopardy. (Maybe he’d checked for messages and e-mails more than he should have in that time period, maybe he couldn’t shake the feeling of inconsistent shivering every time one failed to appear.) He was laying on the bed with his feet up on the wall over the headboard and his arms crossed behind his head.

He was trying to imagine a world where his brother did what their Mother couldn’t. He tried to imagine a world where Kadar could hate him or at very least think he was a depraved thing. It was nearly impossible. Even in his darkest thoughts, even when he was sure that his Mother would hate him (even when he hated himself the most) he could not have created a world in his mind where Kadar could hate him. 

Kadar was made of _good_ in a world where everything was less good. Malik hated it about him. He hated Kadar’s faith in the world and his optimism and his belief that everything would be _okay_ in equal measure to how he hated how childish and stupid he was. But he had spent most of his life protecting that about him. 

“Just don’t hate me, okay?” Malik said to the ceiling.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Today has been a bad day. I have had worse and I’m sure there will be worse to come. It’s knowing things like that which give me the strength to persevere. Worse things are still yet to come. 
> 
> However, since we’ve survived this day (assuming you haven’t fallen off the balcony to your death), have this answer to a question you asked me a long time ago. When we had sex, I did have an orgasm. Rest your conscious on the matter.

“Sass had an orgasm. I’m not a complete failure,” Altair said to Desmond when he found his way out to the balcony. It was after dark with the temperature dropping steadily ever since the last light faded from the sky. He had a pillow behind his back because putting pressure on his left side hurt and the half empty bottle of vodka he brought with him was noticeably lighter than before. 

“Just now? If this relationship has devolved into sexy e-mails and she still hates you, you are doing something wrong. Regardless of whether or not she orgasms.” Desmond reached down and took the bottle of vodka from him, he leaned across him to get the cap off the little table to the side and put the whole thing out of reach before he sat down. 

“Too good to drink with me?” Altair asked.

“Anti-depressants and alcohol do not mix,” Desmond said. 

“I’m sorry I depressed you,” Altair said. He hadn’t said it. It seemed like the sort of thing that he should have said back at the beginning. Of course the whole thing seemed like it was torturing Desmond almost more than it was torturing anyone else. His campaign was crippled by the fact that he had yet to say exactly why he was angry at the family. They hadn’t asked either but assumed that he suffered from wounded pride and childish stupidity.

“If you’re going to use me,” Desmond said. “It needs to do some good. I don’t want my story thrown across headlines for sensationalism. If you go out and say, this happens and we need to stop pretending it doesn’t—then you can. If you’re just going to run out and shout about how I was mistreated and the Auditore family is full of terrible people—you can’t use me to do it. I don’t want my name on a foundation. I don’t want to be known for this all the rest of my life, Altair. I already feel like it follows me. I feel like it’s written on my face and it sneaks into everything I say. I feel like everyone that looks at me knows what happened and how it’s all my fault.”

Altair licked his lips (because they were dry) and half turned in his chair to see Desmond better while he spoke. “Okay,” he said.

Desmond nodded and looked out over the balcony toward the lights of the city. He was quiet for a minute before he stretched and slouched into the seat more comfortably. “Couldn’t even defend yourself from a girl, huh?”

“Claudia is not a girl. She’s a demon.” Altair couldn’t slouch because it hurt but he could gingerly lay against his pillow and put his feet up on the railing on the balcony. “Yeah but, maybe you should wear full body armor when you finally have sex with Lucy.”

“I wish you’d stop,” Desmond said.

“I wish you’d start,” Altair retorted. “I’m not sure what else this girl has to do to convince you that she’s crazy about you. She just beat up your toughest cousin.”

“I’m not ready to date anyone.”

“At this point you’re already married to her.”

Desmond sighed. “You should invite Edward to your fuck you Christmas special. I think uniting the family disgrace that draws a year check from Mama Maria and the freshly christened grandchild will really turn the knife.”

“I don’t even know Edward,” Altair said. “What does he even do? Doesn’t he have a yacht or something? If you want him, he can come but you have to invite him.”

“I will,” Desmond said. 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> So I met this wonderful girl named Amina.
> 
> She’s beautiful.
> 
> Everything about her reminds me of the life that I could have had.
> 
> Sometimes I think that if Dad hadn’t died we would have turned out different. I think Mom wouldn’t have been so tired.
> 
> I think, you and I wouldn’t have been left to figure out the things that we couldn’t ask Mom.
> 
> I think that we would have grown up with a better understanding and a stronger belief in Islam.
> 
> It’s a nice thought to have. To imagine that in a different life, I could be the sort of man that this girl wants.
> 
> Because I could listen to her talk for hours. 
> 
> I want to be the sort of man she wants. I want to believe in the things she needs me to believe.
> 
> I want to know what my life would have been if my Father hadn’t died. I want to know what our Mother would be like if she hadn’t been alone for so long.
> 
> But I’m not those things.
> 
> That isn’t my life.
> 
> I don’t agree with you. I don’t think the choice is hate yourself or have faith. 
> 
> But I am not you. I am not made the same.
> 
> I do not have the same troubles.
> 
> Do not say a word about bacon.
> 
> I thought that if I focused more of my time on my faith that I would be a better person. I thought it would make me worthy of this beautiful girl.
> 
> Then it made me mad because it doesn’t matter what I do or who I am. You’re my brother and you’re disgusting. You should not be allowed to live.
> 
> I can’t figure out how to reconcile my religion with my beliefs. 
> 
> I’m working on it. 
> 
> But, the one thing that I know above all else is that you are my brother. 
> 
> I will never chose anyone over you.
> 
> I will never be ashamed of you.
> 
> You were always there. No matter what. Every day of my life.
> 
> I didn’t know how bad it was for you because you didn’t let me see.
> 
> But hopefully, you can see that I believe in nothing so strongly or so permanently as I believe in you.
> 
> And if you don’t respond with something sarcastic and witty, I’ll send you a ten minute video of me sobbing.
> 
> Don’t even tempt fate.
> 
> I’m on the verge.
> 
> I recommend masturbation, it’s a far better use of tissues.
> 
> I hear it helps soothe adolescent mood swings.
> 
> You’re an idiot. I love you.
> 
> Whatever, slut.

“For God’s sake,” Leonardo said from the doorway. “I refuse to be cockblocked by your obsession with electronics on a weekend I specifically kidnapped you for sex purposes.” He marched into the room, plucked the phone out of Malik’s hand and dropped it on the bed before dragging Malik up over his shoulder.

“I can walk,” Malik said.

Leonardo slapped him on the ass. “I plan to fix that problem.” Then he carried him out of the room toward his own.


	26. Chapter 26

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I know you’ve got a congratulations post coming up so I thought I’d give you this picture. I have a new haircut. If this isn’t worth a congrats, I don’t know what is.

Something that actually deserved congratulations? Doing something good for someone else? There were innumerable things that Malik might have been able to come up with that were more worthy of a congratulations post than the fact that Altair got a new haircut. Even if the haircut had eliminated the ridiculously long flop of his hair that Altair had given up styling over a month ago and was more often than not hidden under a hat. It was shaved on the sides still and cut short on the top so it was little tufts and spikes (still wet). Altair was ambivalent (going by the expression of studious attention as he looked at his phone and not the mirror) about his new look but it made him look less like an asshole.

Malik didn’t sigh but saved the picture to the growing folder of pictures he had the man and tried to work out whether or not he wanted to write a whole congratulations post about Altair’s hair or if he should ignore the bait and write what he was going to write (namely that Altair had apparently decided to start donating quietly large amounts of money to child abuse charities). The fact that the jerk hadn’t asked him to write about it or bragged about it meant that it probably had something to do with the feud. However, Desmond’s warning was ringing around the inside of his head.

On one hand, donating that money to the charities was possibly the most responsible and worthwhile thing Altair had ever done in his entire life. (At least that was publicly accessible.) On the other hand, inviting the wrath of the Auditore family down upon him seemed like a terrible idea. 

On the other, other hand—if he hadn’t gotten a friendly warning about what was likely to happen, he probably would have written about the charities. While Malik liked common sense (because it was an important quality to have), he also hated being hesitant to do something simply because someone else did not want him to do it. 

Of course, there was the possibility that he could do both. Or that he could just post the picture with the haircut and make it a five things wrong photo because the people that had flocked to his website seemed to really appreciate getting pictures of Altair that nobody else had. (And Malik was happy enough to oblige them since his pastime started paying him.) 

Malik rubbed his hand through his own hair (despicably long at this point) and then went back to the post he was half-way through writing about the prevalence of child abuse and the importance of doing something to stop it. While he hadn’t intentionally tried to focus on any one of the areas of abuse he found himself trying to work out was the most likely to have happened. (And what a terrible way to spend his time, trying to think of which way someone had been damaged by their parents.) 

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> What’s Lucy’s number?
> 
> I’m just asking because I need a reliable body guard but I need it to look like a casual shopping date.
> 
> I’m offended you didn’t ask me
> 
> I’m sorry princess. Do you want to go try on clothes with me?
> 
> Only if we can take pictures of what great friends we are
> 
> Ok but I was going to do this without having a secret agenda.
> 
> I suppose it will be just as fun regardless.

Shopping with Claudia had not necessarily been fun. She had been stuck inside for a week while the worse of her bruises faded. That time had been spent at his place making friends with Lucy and hanging out with Desmond (who was resigned to having many babysitters. Although Claudia’s presence propelled Desmond to take up running again so that was good). The point wasn’t that it was fun but that Altair had taken pictures of them doing it and they had been sure to go out and get something to eat afterward. 

Claudia was an Auditore, raised in the public eye, and she was as good as Ezio at maintaining an honest smile with a liar’s eyes. She was eating with dainty little pinkie fingers stuck out to the side and her napkin smudged with the lipstick she dabbed off her lips. Her elbows never touched the table (an offense too rude to contemplate) but she managed to look like she was leaning forward across the table anyway. “Altair,” she said as confidentially as one could say anything in a public place. “There is, perhaps, one small flaw in your plan.”

“What kind of flaw?” As far as he was concerned it was working out nearly perfectly. He had claimed two of the more important Auditores. 

“My Mother and Father will forgive you for all of this when they know the truth. It is most Federico that feels you have crossed a line that should not be crossed and that there is no chance for you to return to us. Mother feels that you are acting out of childishness but she is forgiving. However, you have to give a little. There needs to be an olive branch in the middle of your war or there can be no reconciliation.”

“Who says I want one?” Altair asked. He balled his own napkin up when he finished his dinner and dropped it into his plate. (His manners were far less developed than Claudia’s, not for lack of education but entirely based on lack of caring.) “I want an apology.”

Claudia rolled her eyes. “Yes, well, what good is an apology when you do not have the family to make amends with? I could give you a public apology right now if that was all you wanted. I have the names and numbers of all the PR persons on my phone. Your goal should not be to force my Mother to apologize for what she’s done but for to heal the damage that was done.”

Well that sounded nice and thoughtful. Altair didn’t feel like he wanted to heal anything. (Then, again, he had spent most of his life looking up to Mama Maria and generally revering her as a goddess capable of anything in the entire world. Even in the middle of destroying her fragile public persona, he was lonely for the familiarity of knowing she was there.) “So what’s your suggestion?”

“My brother will be debuting his show soon. Perhaps you could go with him to sell it? Talk about it on your social media.” 

Well that was nice. Except that if he did that, everyone would just assume everything he’d done was just for publicity. “What if that’s not what I want?”

“If you must burn someone, if you must have blood—perhaps you should go after the source of it? If my mother truly believes that what our cousin says is true, she will not rest until she’s made up for the wrong that was committed.”

Altair drew in a breath and let it out again. “Yes but I can’t. I was asked not to.” He took a drink and set the glass down. “You know, unless the source comes out of hiding first. Then I can fight back.”

“Bait him,” Claudia said. “You’re good at pissing people off. Use this skill for good.”

That was most likely a direct violation of the command he was given not to involve William. Still, he could probably help Ezio with his show. “What should we make for Christmas dinner?” he asked.

“What would Nonna make?”

Everything. Grandma did not believe in moderation. Her kitchen worked in excess at the holidays, churning out every imaginable food anyone could want. Altair had many favorites (as evidenced by his yearly expanding waistline) but not one that he could identify as being specifically tied to a single holiday. So he shrugged. “Lucy and Desmond will figure it out if we put it off long enough.”

Claudia made a humming noise. “Well, I must go.” 

\--

> ### Charity; the voluntary act of giving help (usually money) to those in need
> 
> Today’s congratulation post will highlight many things but it will specifically focus on the fact that our dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad has not only expanded the charities which he contributes to this year but that the four new ones he has chosen all share one purpose. Since it is a purpose that has become very dear to Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad’s heart, and since it is so very important, we will take a moment to discuss it.
> 
> **(Cut for frank talk about the signs of child abuse and how you can help.)**
> 
> Remember, if a child comes to you and says that they are being physically or emotionally neglected or abused, remain calm and _listen_. The last thing any decent person wants on their conscience is the knowledge that they could have saved a child that asked for their help.

Desmond sighed at the screen. There was almost no way that Altair wouldn’t have gotten around to making sure the world knew about how he’d gone off and donated all the money he had allotted for charities to the four top foundations for preventing child abuse or helping the past victims move on and live healthy, normal lives. But there was always the lingering hope that Sass-Badger (a relatively innocent bystander) wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. 

“What’s that sigh about?” Lucy asked. She was wearing her pajamas, sitting on his couch with her legs tucked up under her body and a book open across the arm. Her hair was loose and she made the most interesting faces as she read with her finger running across the long line of words. She didn’t even look up at him when she spoke. “Altair?”

“No.” He closed the laptop and put it on the table. The way things were going, he would eventually have to stop opening the stupid thing. Every time he went looking around on the internet he found more things that he didn’t want to think about. His world was small enough now that he’d been removed from work but he kept finding new ways to shrink it. “What about your family?” he asked. 

Lucy did look up then, with her hand splayed open across the book page and the most curious look of confusion on her face. “What about them?”

“Do you have a family? We don’t talk about you a lot. We talk about me all the time.” Which was grossly unfair all things considered. It seemed to him the last time he’d made friends with someone the talking was split more decidedly toward the opposite side. Desmond was good at listening and observing and less good at talking and explaining. “Aren’t they going to miss you this Christmas?”

But Lucy just shook her head. “No, most likely not. It was not a popular choice for me to go into the Air Force. It also wasn’t a popular choice for me to go to college. And the third and least popular choice was that I moved here. Apparently, in my family, wanting to make something of myself besides being a woman that stays home and takes care of the family is outrageous.” Lucy shrugged and shifted on the couch. “I mean,” she closed the book around her hand and rested it against her thigh. “They never said that they were disappointed in me or that they didn’t want me anymore because I wasn’t what they expected but if I go home, my Mom still wants me to wear flowery dresses and meet guys with good jobs so I don’t have to work. My Dad thinks my hair is too short and I walk like a man. He always says something because I’m not ‘soft like a woman should be’ and have muscles. It’s quiet but constant. I’m not what they thought they’d get with a daughter. So, I stopped going home a few years ago. They called the first year and tried to get me to come. The second year they called and asked if I was coming and last year they called to tell me they were going to Florida for Christmas since that was better for everyone.”

“That sucks,” Desmond said.

“It is what it is. I have great memories of my parents until I was about sixteen and decided that I didn’t want to become my Mother. She’s so docile and complacent. Nothing upsets her—except me. I didn’t want to be that person that knows how to make a pie crust and can make dinner for all my husband’s work buddies with no notice without even a hint of objection. I wanted to do things with my life. I wanted to have the right to live however I wanted.” She smiled and it was so pretty. “I actually tried to be a lesbian for a while because I knew that would piss them off. It didn’t work out. Turns out I love dick.”

Desmond laughed. “You tried to be a lesbian? How far did you make it?”

Lucy was pink with amusement (or embarrassment) when she shrugged. “I made it all the way. I had a girlfriend for a long time. We had sex. Then she broke up with me because I was just _pretending_ and I had sex with her brother and discovered I really liked having sex with men.” 

“That is the best story I have ever heard,” Desmond said. He was trying to imagine what Lucy must have looked like in high school and what sort of woman she’d chose as a girlfriend. (He imagined her with her face of utter determination while she went about becoming a lesbian.) 

“Yeah, whatever, laugh it up. My parents were relieved when I started dating guys but I think in the end they probably would have a better idea what to think of me if I was a lesbian.” She looked down at her book and then licked her lips. “What about you? Have you ever done anything with another guy or—anyone?”

Desmond made an offended noise at the implication that he hadn’t ever had sex. “Why does everyone think I’m sexless? I’m not a virgin. I’ve had sex.”

“I know you’ve had sex, I meant something more adventurous than getting drunk and sleeping with future teachers.”

“That was Altair.” Not him. “I—No. I mean, this one time Ezio decided to play spin the bottle with a bunch of kids that we had over for Altair’s birthday one year. He ended up having to kiss me and since he’d made a big deal about how nobody could refuse to kiss whoever the bottle landed on he had to do it. That wouldn’t have been bad except he stuck his tongue in my mouth. His brother walked in and he covered up the fact that he was kissing me by punching me in the balls.”

Lucy laughed at him until her face was pink and her body was bent forward. “What the fuck is wrong with your family?”

Desmond laughed with her because it was easy-and-warm.

\--

son-of-no-one: thank you, Sass. (3m ago)

Son-of-no-one: Abuse and neglect has lifelong effects on the innocent children that it happens to. (3m ago)

Son-of-no-one: for fucks sake, if a child tells you they are being abused, NEVER defend the bastard that did it. I don’t care if he’s your family. (2m ago)

Son-of-no-one: protect the child, not the abuser. (2m ago)

Malik got the alerts that the new messages existed as he was leaving class. He waited until he was out beyond the hallway, through the doors and onto the snowy grass before he looked at his phone. He expected something flippant (or rude). Instead he was left with an uneasy feeling in his gut and a shivery sense of pride at the little asshole for taking something seriously.

The feeling didn’t last him long enough because his contemplation was interrupted by a shadow that fell across the ground and his phone from the side. He looked up and found himself looking at a smugly grinning guy who appeared to recognize him. (Shame Malik did not recognize the smugly grinning man.) “What?” Malik asked.

“I saw you from over there,” the man said with a nod back in the general direction of behind him. “I just thought you looked familiar.”

“I must have that sort of face,” Malik said. He tucked his phone back into his pocket and thought (again) how he really needed to purchase a better coat and gloves before the winter progressed very much farther. The ones he had were several years old and worn thin from use. “Was there something else?”

“Uh, yeah. I was wondering if you wanted to have sex.”

Malik sighed. “No.”

“Why not?”

The main reason being that despite his penchant for good looking men that had below-average intelligences (that was unfair) he really did not have patience for smug assholes that were too sure of themselves to act humble. If Malik was going to get naked with someone he needed to be able to stand looking at them. The secondary reason was, “I’m assuming you found me through the sex review website?”

Smug guy did not have enough sense to be embarrassed. “A friend told me about you but I know the website.”

Malik finished pulling his gloves on. Then he took a step forward into the soft snow on the grass and did a slow circle around the smug jerk that was standing there looking impatient with a twitching muscle in his jaw and his arms crossed over his chest. Even with his coat on, it was obvious that he was very proud of his bulging arms and the width of his shoulders. He was probably also very proud of the creamy whiteness of his skin and the fluffy blonde hair on his head. “There are several reasons I will not have sex with you. One of your legs is shorter than the other. Your ass is flat. You smell like the grease that stains the bottom of pizza boxes. Your hair has not been combed today. Your teeth are yellowed. Your smile is crooked. One of your eyes is wider than the other. Your ears are asymmetrical and I’m just assuming, but I do not actually know, your penis probably lies on the lower end of the average size. You are a six and I have been reliably informed that I won’t settle for less than an eight. Perhaps more important than your lacking physical attributes is the fact that you have the personality of a drooling mutt and given the choice I’d rather fuck the dog than you.” Then Malik smiled at his outrage and simply turned and left him there. 

\--

>   
>  **Interviewer: the question we’ve all been dying to know, is there a feud in the family and what caused it? The two of you are here together, _now_ so is this a sign that things are getting better?**
> 
> Ezio: There is always a feud in my family. We are passionate, opinionated people.
> 
> Altair: [Looks up from phone.] Ha. Passionate and opinionated is putting it mildly. There is a feud. There is always a feud. 
> 
> Ezio: I just said that.
> 
> Altair: It’s because I’m better looking.
> 
> Ezio: Aha, you are funny cousin. He is funny.
> 
> Altair: Ask the guy. Ok, uh—Smith. Which one of us is better looking? Don’t be dazzled by the fact that he’s wearing a suit. I didn’t know this was going to be taped until I got here. That’s why I’ve got the hat and everything. Just our faces. Who is more attractive?
> 
> **Interviewer: [laughs] well, I’m not sure I’m the most qualified judge—you’re both very handsome guys.**
> 
> Ezio: He cannot answer.
> 
> Altair: It’s because I’m more attractive. It’s my natural tan.
> 
> Ezio: You cannot be serious.
> 
> Altair: It’s my piercing golden eyes.
> 
> Ezio: He is not serious.
> 
> Altair: Also I have the big—
> 
> Ezio: Next question.
> 
> Altair: Don’t be sad, Ezio. Your hair is fabulous. Any girl would love to have you.
> 
> Ezio: Next question please.

Altair did not even duck out of the way of getting punched when the interview was over. Ezio hit him as hard as he could on the upper arm (not so far removed from where Claudia had left her bruises). It was friendly enough.

“Do not tell lies about me,” Ezio said. He unscrewed the cap of his water and took a long drink before chucking the empty bottle into the nearby recycling bin. They were free (and relatively quickly as far as interviews went). Outside, there were opportunistic men with cameras hoping to catch a relatively important celebrity. The sight of the two of them was demoralizing but Altair watched one of them take a few pity photographs of them like he was doing them a favor. “It is too cold here. Why couldn’t you stage your rebellion elsewhere?”

“Next time I decide to wage war on the family, I’ll make sure to do it in the Caribbean. With Edward.” He shrugged his own coat back up onto his shoulders (he hadn’t bothered before the cold of the air hit him full force) and zipped it up. “What did Edward do anyway? I know he tried to marry a former prostitute or stripper or porn star or something but how did that end with your Mother sending him a check every year?”

“Do you imagine that when Nonna died and my Mother took in you and Desmond that she was content to abandon the other children? Edward was an embarrassment because he was angry and drunk. He did try to marry a former prostitute but that was not the reason he was sent away. Federico is a far better example for the younger children to follow. Or he was.” Ezio huffed a sigh. “You know. My Mother was the only one of the children that came to visit Nonna every year when she was a child. She came in the summer and stayed in the old house with her every summer until Federico was born. Mother said she did not take money from Nonna because she wanted a family, not money.”

“So what happened to that? She wants a family, not money but she sends away the ones that are a disgrace and she forces her son to marry some woman he probably doesn’t even love and she does what? Blames the one that was hurt for getting hurt while she just sits by and watches it happen all over again?” Altair stopped on the sidewalk to turn around and look at Ezio. The pain (and horribly confused offense and sadness) was evident in the twist of his features and the half-curled tightness of his hands. It wasn’t fair. None of it was fair, but Ezio’s painful divided loyalty was less fair than most of it. “How did your Mother who values family above all else fail to protect her family?”

“How did you—who loves Desmond best of all—fail to see the truth for so long? How have you gone this many years without knowing anything?”

Because Desmond didn’t want him to know. Because Altair was petty and stupid and selfish and never bothered to look. Because nobody had ever told him and it might have been simpler if nobody ever had. Altair sighed, “but Mama Maria _knew_. Grandma must have told her.”

“I do not know,” Ezio said with a sigh. Then he stepped around Altair and kept walking, leaving him to follow or not. Altair stood a moment frowning at the sidewalk and then turned and ran after him to catch up. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> when are you coming home?
> 
> 16th 
> 
> Well, 17th
> 
> I vacuumed under the couch again
> 
> for you. So you better look under it
> 
> I’ll be sure to do that.
> 
> So this guy tried to ask me for sex.
> 
> And you said your schedule was too full?
> 
> But he was obnoxious so I turned him down.
> 
> by obnoxious you mean ugly?
> 
> He wrote a review about me on the website
> 
> No I mean obnoxious he was a dick.
> 
> It says uptight, pretentious and would rather fuck dogs.
> 
> Malik
> 
> It might be time to stop having sex with random guys
> 
> I haven’t had sex with anyone in a week.
> 
> Good! Now see if you can make that last another week
> 
> Go do your homework.

Kadar was walking home from his friend’s house (in the rain) thinking fondly about how the other kids his age had cars (or access to them). He was three-fourths through talking himself into feeling grateful for how his Mother provided him food and shelter (and a phone and a computer and other things that he enjoyed). Except that it was raining and he was wearing the coat he’d gotten a year and a half ago. It was soaked through the outer later while his boots were covered in slush from the half-melted snow. There was mud everywhere and there was a good chance that his every other step could send him careening to the ground in a mad slip-or-slide to the embarrassing doom.

He was thinking about how nice it would be to have Malik around to take him places and how it would be exceptionally nice to have a few weeks off school to do nothing with. (He wasn’t thinking about the Christian kids and their mounting excitement about Christmas. Or how everyone’s houses were slowly being transformed into colorful displays of the spirit of the season.) Kadar was concentrating so hard on staying upright that he nearly missed the blur of motion coming from the water running toward the sewer drain. 

The motion was a little blur of white accompanied by a worried little cry (weak and pathetic) or else Kadar might have dismissed it as a displaced chunk of snow. As it was he only turned because of the noise and almost didn’t recognize the damp white spot in the water struggling to escape was _alive_ in time to jump into the puddle and grab it before the current of the water dragged it farther sideways. The kitten was soaked and caught in a clump of dead weeds and leaves that had wrapped two of its legs together. He pulled them off the kitten as it opened its jaws in a desperate cry for freedom. 

“Are you okay?” he asked it when he finally got it free. The poor thing was shivering so hard in his hand that he pulled his coat away from his chest and tucked it inside. The kitten was a wet spot against his breastbone that was snuggling deeper in toward his shoulder where it was warmest and driest. “Ow,” he said to the little claws digging in through his shirt. He zipped his coat back up as far as he dared and got out of the puddle. It was another six or seven blocks to his house and by the time he got there the kitten had gone still but Kadar’s feet were soaked and he was shivering. 

His Mother was already home and in the kitchen, making something that smelled spicy and delicious while she hummed to herself. He kicked off his wet shows and pulled off his dripping wet socks. He hung up his coat and cupped the kitten in his hand by the front door. In all the years of his life, Mother had never let them have a pet. Malik had spent a goodly portion of time before his ninth birthday begging for a cat and when that failed to work he had made a presentation out of the reasons it was a good idea. Mother felt that they were too young to understand the responsibility that keeping a pet entailed and that had simply been the end of it. 

So, the kitten (fluffed up from drying himself against Kadar’s clothes) sitting in his hands with a wide-open mouth yawning mewls was the first of its kind to ever make it over the threshold of their home. Kadar stopped there with an uncertain shift from one foot to the other trying to work out how he could convince his Mother to let him keep the kitten. 

“Kadar?” she called from the kitchen.

He held the kitten (small enough to fit in just one of his hands) up against his chest and went to find his Mother. She was dumping something into a pan on the stove when he walked in and only turned around to look at him because he kicked the chair by the door on accident. “Hi Mom.” He looked down at the kitten. “He was drowning and I saved him. Doesn’t he look like Malik would love him?”

Mother was especially good at ferreting out the manipulative statements of little boys who thought they were clever. She had despaired over him in his younger years because his face was so very adorable and his eyes were so very blue. She was weak against him (a fact that Malik exploited as often as he felt necessary) and they both knew it. When she walked over to pick up the kitten out of his hands there was a tight-lipped reluctance about the motion. The kitten was white as snow with little touches of gray here and there like it was meant to have stripes. “Your brother has always wanted a cat.”

“They are the most independent animal.”

She tipped the kitten one way and then the other before setting it against her chest and stroking its head. “When your brother is not here, who will take care of the cat?”

“I will.”

“It would be a shame if you had to explain to your brother that his cat was given away because you did not care for it.” Then she handed him the kitten back. “After dinner we will go and buy supplies. Find a box to put it in while we eat and while we are gone.”

“Thanks Mom,” Kadar said. “Don’t tell Malik. I want to surprise him.”

\--

son-of-no-one: my favorite Christmas tradition is memorizing the wrong latin words for Mass. Every year @EzioAuditore taught me a new set. Every year they were wrong.(3h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, how can you know so many languages and still not know latin? (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, because it’s a dead language. Because I trusted you. (2h ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, it’s been ten years. It’s time to stop trusting him when he says ‘trust me’. (2h ago)

EzioAuditore: @Shirley-Templar, do not ruin it. This is my favorite tradition too. (2h ago)

The decision to host Christmas at Altair’s place instead of Desmond’s cramped apartment was based entirely on the fact that he had rooms enough for all the guests to sleep comfortably. He also had a kitchen expansive and well-stocked enough to allow all the various members of the family to cook their own additions to the feast with relative ease.

Hosting meant that he had to decorate. (Why did he have to decorate? Because the Auditore siblings were insistent that it was a vital part of the process. Because Lucy decided that it would be festive and therefore necessary and Desmond had actually smiled when Altair dragged him out to pick out stuff to put on the tree he was apparently getting.) 

“I know that I said you needed to get decorations,” Lucy said when she arrived after work to see how his living room had devolved into endless clutter of endless bags full of decorations. “And I am aware that you have untold wealth but this is not what I meant. I thought you were going with him to make sure he didn’t spend his entire year’s allowance on this.” She crouched down to peek into the first bag and then reached over to pull open a second and look into it.

“I made the mistake of allowing Claudia to join us. Altair made the mistake of mentioning he didn’t have Christmas dishes or blankets or anything. I only just barely managed to avoid having Claudia talk him into the five foot wooden crucifix that went on the wall.” Desmond was on the other side of the tree (a monumental thing that was going up in front of the windows and out of the main living room space) passing the lights around to Altair so he could place them appropriately on the branches. 

“You are doing a terrible job of that,” Lucy said. She stood up and put her hands on her hips.

“What?” Altair asked.

“Not you. You are actually doing okay. Desmond is doing an awful job.” She came over and motioned at him to get out of the way before taking over his place. “So you had to buy the entire Christmas section?”

“That’s what it feels like,” Altair said. He passed the lights back to her. “But I am purposefully keeping them from their family on the most sacred holiday. And it just happens to be the year Mama Maria hosts the entire extended Auditore family which means all their aunts and uncles and other cousins will be there and they will not be. It’s a big deal.” 

“In which case, perhaps you didn’t buy enough.” Lucy was fixing the lights on the upper branches where Desmond apparently did a terrible job before she accepted them from him again. “So, as it turns out I’m being evicted. My roommate says that I’m never there and even though I pay my half that since I’m never there I need to just go ahead and move out. She has another roommate that wants my room and is willing to pay more than I was paying.”

Desmond was pulling Christmas bulbs out of the packaging. “What?” he demanded.

“I have until New Years,” Lucy said.

“I don’t know why you haven’t moved out already,” Altair said. It wasn’t a surprise that someone might find it annoying (or odd) that Lucy was never around when she was supposedly living elsewhere. He had enough rooms to house everyone but he wasn’t sure offering one to Lucy was the best alternative. “If Desmond doesn’t offer you a room you can take one of mine.”

“Thanks,” Lucy said.

“I—” Desmond started and then tapered off. He sighed, “You’ve already got a room at my apartment. I thought that went without saying at this point. I mean I do wash your panties every week. I’m pretty sure you’re all but officially moved in.”

“He said panties,” Lucy said to Altair like they were middle school kids again.

“Now if only you could get him to touch them while you’re still wearing them,” Altair said. And Lucy hit him with the strand of lights in time with Desmond chucking a rolled up ball of paper at his head. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Do you celebrate a winter holiday, Sass? 
> 
> Unrelated to that, is it morally wrong in some manner to celebrate Christmas despite the fact that I do not believe in god or Jesus? My Grandmother celebrated it and it’s a big deal with my extended family so it’s something I’ve always done. But absent the Christian belief, is it wrong to celebrate it? 

Malik had taken up going to the used bookstore on the days his classes ended early. He found a comfortable corner to rest his back against and worked his way through the shelves of books with a systematic diligence that reminded him of years ago when he cared more about learning than he did about anything else. The books he kept in the pile at his right were not informational but interesting. He liked the tattered covers and the first ten pages of them so he kept them to read later. The ones he put back were dry and brittle, too full of themselves of things that didn’t appeal to him to consider.

“You come here a lot,” the woman who came here as often as he did observed (on a fairly regular basis). She had cut her hair since the last time he saw her. “What kind of books do you like?” When she sat it was opposite the raised step from where he was. Her mannerisms were like that of a person approaching a skittish animal. Her voice was so soft he sometimes couldn’t hear what she was saying. 

Good ones (was his first thought). But he said, “whatever captures my interest. I read a lot of historical fiction. I read biographies. I’m also interesting in science fiction.”

She nodded. “I’m Sofia,” she said. 

“Malik.” He looked at the stack of books on her lap. “What do you like reading?”

And her smile was so sweet when she looked down at them. “I read everything. Do you go to the university?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. 

“What’s your major?”

“History. What about you?” It was not the most impressive conversation he’d ever had but he didn’t often come to the bookstore to engage in conversation. He came to get away from people that recognized his face and thought he was a slut. (And to get away from his computer and his phone and the many pressures and unanswered questions clouding up his life.)

“I don’t go to school,” she said. “Any particular part of history?”

“I haven’t decided,” he said. 

She nodded and then looked at her watch. “I’ll see you next time, maybe?” Then she was up on her feet and he was alone again.

\--

>   
>  **Interviewer: So, you just gave quite a bit of money to three—was it four? It was four foundations dealing with child abuse and we have all seen your tweets advising people to listen to children and not protect the abuser. I think I speak for many people when I ask, does this have something to do with the recent feuding?**
> 
> Altair: It recently came to light that a member of my family had suffered abuse as a child. It was something that just wasn’t talked about at all but it has had a lot of lasting repercussions. I wanted to do something to help other people and children in similar situations. I think a great deal of people aren’t fully educated about the prevalence of the wide variety of abuse and neglect that happens all around them. Children deserve to be protected and it’s a tragedy that these things are happening but it’s an outright disgusting disgrace that any child who has suffered might be made to feel like they deserved it or is told they are lying. It’s something that’s recently become very important to me.
> 
> **Interviewer: Of course. While we were doing research for this interview, we looked up some of the statistics on child abuse—actually using some of the resources listed on your internet rival, Sass-Badger’s, page—the numbers were just staggering.**
> 
> Altair: Yes they are.
> 
> **Interviewer: Going back to that, to Sass-Badger, it seems like while most of the time this person—**
> 
> Altair: She.
> 
> **Interviewer: Right, most of the time she is condemning you for behaving badly but sometimes it seems like the two of you are almost friends. What is that relationship like? Have you ever met?**
> 
> Altair: That relationship is exactly what you see on the blog. She tells me when I’m doing something dumb I should be ashamed of and sometimes I manage to not do dumb things. I think she is very well-spoken and generally very fair with her criticism. 
> 
> **Interviewer: But I’ve heard—and I’m not saying it’s correct or incorrect, just that I’ve heard it—that she might be a stalker. If you know nothing about this person and yet they are so intimately concerned with your life, how do you—interact with them?**
> 
> Altair: Well it’s not that different than what’s happening now. I don’t know you. You’re intimately concerned with my life. We had that whole line of questions about whether or not I date and what sort of woman I’m interested in. The difference between Sass-Badger and you is that what she’s trying to do is explain why someone in my position—with wealth and power—has a responsibility to behave in a certain way. You just want to stir shit. If I had to choose, I’d pick the person trying to make a positive change in the world.

Desmond was out when Altair got back. Lucy (upon securing an invitation to live with the guy she was in love with) had convinced him to assist her move her belongings. There was only Claudia putting the finishing touches on decorating his living room when he finally got back. 

“I feel like I walked into Christmas hell,” he said. There were snowmen and angels everywhere. The tree was a garishly bright spot in the room completely with a variety of lights and bows. Strings of beads and bulbs of various colors of blue covered it nearly completely. Altair flopped back into his couch (still untouched by the Christmas make-over) and watched Claudia fussing with the little figures she was setting out on a low shelf on the far wall. “Have you talked to Cristina yet?”

“Ezio and I were discussing how best to convince her to betray her husband and defy her formidable mother-in-law. It is a poor choice to send my brother to steal Federico’s wife but it would be much more expedient. She loves him, you know. So I must convince her it is best.” Then Claudia straightened up away from the display and was still unsatisfied. 

“Well, if Ezio convinced her to walk out on Federico on Christmas, I think we’d have a much larger fight on our hands.” He rubbed his face with both hands and sighed. “I want to get Lucy something for Christmas.”

“Ha,” Claudia said. “Perhaps you can convince Desmond that he should kiss her. That is all that she seems to want.”

“I have tried,” Altair said.

“Hang mistletoe,” Claudia said. “Buy Lucy something pretty to wear. She has a beautiful body and no clothes to show it.” Then she came over and sat next to him with her legs crossed and their bodies pressed together. She rested her chin against his shoulder. “Do you remember Nonna made hot chocolate and gingerbread every year?”

“Yeah,” Altair said. “We used to make gingerbread houses. One year we tried to make a replica of the old house. It took us six days and we still didn’t finish it. Why?”

“You and I, we must figure out how to make those cookies.” Because Claudia was lonesome for family. Perhaps more so than Ezio, as Claudia had never been allowed away from her mother’s side for too long. She had been there to watch Petruccio wither and die while the older boys were sent away for making trouble.

“I figured out how to make pie. What do we need to make cookies?”

Claudia smiled, “I have already bought the things!” Then she was up on her feet and dragging him into the kitchen. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I do not celebrate Christmas or any other winter holiday. 
> 
> Don’t think so hard about why you’re celebrating with your family. Unless they are specifically asking you to join them in religious belief, just enjoy the time that you have with them and the traditions that you share. Sometimes, thinking too much is the cause of unhappiness.
> 
> I am also flattered that you think I’m making a positive change in the world. There are a lot of people that disagree with you. More than a few of them that are new to the site and full of hateful things to say about me. On the one hand, I have a renewed sense of sadness for so much blind hatred in the world. On the other hand, every time another person shows up and calls me feminist trash and tells me to get fucked and die, I make money. It’s a confusing state of affairs.

Malik had packed everything he wanted to take with him when we went back home for winter break. What he wasn’t taking he stored under his bed for safekeeping (and just in general to keep his roommate who may or may not arrive back before him from snooping through it). He spent his last day (waiting around for it to be the day he got on the bus to go home) reading his way through the stack of books he’d bought.

With so little time left before he was home again, he was impatient to get started and even more impatient to be home again. (How different was that from what he’d thought he’d feel when he left.)

\--

> [Video starts with a clear view of Altair’s Christmas Tree]
> 
> Altair: [Enters from the side wearing an ugly green sweater with a reindeer on it that has a collar made out of silver bells] So, every year our family ends up drinking egg nog and singing all the Christmas carols we can remember. It’s something that we—the cousins have been doing since as long as I can remember.
> 
> Ezio: [Enters from the left of the camera and stands in front of three. Noticeably wearing a red sweater with a snowman on it. The scarf on the snowman dangles from the front of the sweater.] The tradition started when you were three. 
> 
> Altair: Tonight, we have Ezio Auditore, his sister Claudia. [Claudia waves as she enters wearing an atrocious pink sweater with sequined snowflakes on it.] A new member of our choir, Lucy.
> 
> Lucy: I didn’t say I would sing. I just agreed to wear the sweater. [Enters, wearing a white sweater with a black dog wearing a Santa hat on it.]
> 
> Altair: You’ll sing. We all sing. Behind the camera we have my favorite cousin Desmond. He doesn’t like people seeing him because he lives in perpetual shame that he is a less attractive version of me.
> 
> Desmond: [Off camera] yeah, that’s it.
> 
> Altair: But he is also going to be singing with us.
> 
> Desmond: [Off camera] I apologize in advance. Headphones users you should you’re your volume down. Some of them scream instead of sing.

By the time they had finished filming the video, they had broken down into hysterical laughter over lyrics that were sung wrong. The eggnog that had started out so pure had been spiked and all of them were pinked-cheeked and carelessly thrown around his living room. Desmond was still arguing with Ezio about the worlds to ‘O Christmas Tree’ while Lucy sat on Claudia’s lap in the arm chair. Her arm was around Claudia’s shoulders as she stroked her fingers through her hair.

“Does it matter?” Altair asked. “Nobody sings that song!”

“It matters when he’s wrong,” Desmond objected. “He’s wrong.”

“Enough, enough,” Claudia said. She was the drunkest of them all. The girl had avoided alcohol most of her life (since she was still underage and adamantly ‘good’ in many ways) so it made her speech slur. Her accent was strong in a way that made Ezio’s enhance itself. The two of them would be verging onto incoherent if they kept it up. “What are we making for Christmas dinner?”

Everyone answered at once (ham! Fried eel! Lamb) and then the fighting over what kind of meat they were all going to eat started in the very next second. Altair listened to them without a personal stake in the outcome. He liked the way Ezio and Desmond were arguing about whether or not eel was worth eating. Claudia was explaining Italian Christmas to Lucy who was still stroking her hair while she nodded in rapt attention. 

“But not lamb,” Lucy said when she looked up and saw him listening in. “I can’t eat a lamb.”

“Lamb is good,” Ezio said.

Desmond nodded. “Lamb is really good.” Then they resumed fighting over eel and halibut and cod.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> I am getting on a bus. You usually have something to say.
> 
> So, get that out now
> 
> I’m not sure what else we have to talk about.
> 
> You’re still gay, right?
> 
> yes
> 
> Still obsessed with your rich and popular not boyfriend?
> 
> Not obsessed. Not my boyfriend
> 
> Yes
> 
> He defended you in an interview.
> 
> He said you were a positive change in the world.
> 
> He sends you e-mails.
> 
> He sends you stupid pictures of himself.
> 
> He thinks I’m a woman
> 
> And he has a raging case of homophobia.
> 
> When this whole thing with his family finally is done, you should do something about that.
> 
> Duly noted.
> 
> See you tomorrow.
> 
> Sleep well.

Malik escaped the bus alive but only just barely. The trip was longer than he remembered the last one being and the company was far less entertaining. He had read most of the time he wasn’t trying to fall asleep. The lady that sat across from him kept giving him the stink eye so he hadn’t been able to get comfortable enough to get any real rest. By the time he gathered his luggage and went out to sit on the bench and wait for his Mother to pick him up, he has surpassed tired and moved straight into exhausted-beyond-reason. 

His memory of being drunk was foggy at best but he thought it must have felt quite a bit like how he felt then. A dreary, drifting sort of feeling with an occasional outburst of giddiness. Malik was half-asleep when his Mother found him and touched his shoulder softly. They exchanged greetings (he was pretty sure) and then she took his computer bag and he dragged his other bag with him toward the car. There might have been some attempt to talk happening in the car but he didn’t think he did a good job of maintaining his half of the conversation. 

He made it the fourteen steps from leaving his shoes by the front door to the couch before he collapsed. The stairs that led to his room were too large an obstacle for him to overcome so he ignored them in favor of the soft throw pillow his face was currently resting. His Mother sighed but she was nice enough to cover him with a throw blanket in the few seconds before he passed out.

But Malik woke up when he was kicked in the butt. “What?” he demanded (momentarily confused about where he was, groggy and hung-over with exhaustion). He rolled onto his back and blinked up at his brother who was outlined by the dim early-morning light through the front window. He was holding something in his hands that he dropped (without explanation) on Malik’s chest. While Malik’s initial reaction was to shove the thing off, he was able to stop himself before he threw the living ball of fluff across the room. “That’s a cat.”

“It’s _your_ cat,” Kadar corrected. He reached down and rubbed its tiny head with a finger. “We’ve just been calling it cat. You should probably give it a better name.”

But it was a cat. There was a cat on his chest in his Mother’s house where no animal had ever been allowed to stay. Malik rubbed his eyes with one hand while he cupped his fingers around the kitten’s delicate body with the other. It was rubbing up against him purring consistently and exploring the folds and wrinkles in the throw blanket over him. “It’s a cat,” he repeated.

“Yes,” Kadar said patiently. “I found him outside about a week ago. He was getting dragged into a sewer. Mom said he can stay. He’s yours.”

It was a cat. Malik picked the kitten up and it clung to his blanket with its tiny little claws and an unhappy mewl. It was almost all white, fluffy and delicate looking as he turned it and looked at its tiny little feet and its short tail. “It’s a cat,” he said again. 

“Good to see that college education isn’t going to waste.” Kadar scratched the kitten behind the ear one more time before he turned toward the kitchen in search of breakfast. “You get to take over cleaning the litter box now that you’re home.”

But it was a _cat_. Malik set it back down on his chest and watched as it crept upward toward his face. Its little paw—soft and warm—pressed against his cheek and then his lip and then it sat down and batted at the wrinkle of the blanket covering most of his chin. He rubbed his fingers down its back and felt the vibrations of its purring. “Hi,” he said to the kitten. “What am I going to name you?”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> How do you get these women to sleep with you? I realize that I slept with you and I should have some understanding but I honestly cannot fathom how you seem to do it with such ease. Do they recognize you? Do you flash money at them? Do they just get dazzled by your perpetual glare?
> 
> As for the candy cane, it seems more like a flirtatious gift than a remedy for bad breath. Don’t stress about it.
> 
> As for your cousin—since I do not know the full situation, I feel inadequate to answer your question. However, if no harm will be done and both parties involved will understand your intentions and the spirit in which you mean them, do whatever you wish. If you have hesitation because you think it will cause harm then don’t.
> 
> _Altair said:_  
>  You are a positive change. Imagine how much more of a positive change you could be if I had the ability to ask you pertinent questions. Like, I just had sex with this woman that was helping Santa in this store. She looked really good in those tights and her lunch break was convenient. She gave me a candy cane afterward so I’m not sure if that means I have bad breath or if that’s just something she’s conditioned to do since she gives them out to all the kids. 
> 
> Or, is it wrong in some way to set up an elaborate maze of mistletoe just to force my cousin to kiss the girl that’s in love with him? I’m doing it for her, not him, because she really wants to kiss him and its Christmas. I mean, he could probably use it too but he’s going through some stuff and probably has rational reasons for being reluctant. 

Desmond took note of the mistletoe that Altair (or Claudia) and strung up over the doorframe between the kitchen and the other rooms. It was tucked to the side where it was less likely to get cousins involved in making out. (It seemed dangerous to hang mistletoe when only one member of their present party wasn’t related to the rest.) He went around it when he went into the kitchen.

Altair was there with flour on his elbows (seemed an odd place to have it) and a fresh spread of hot gingerbread laying out across his massive table. The whole kitchen smelled like the old house at Christmas, with the fragrant _taste_ of chocolate in the air from the simmering hot cocoa on the stove and the crisp spicy smell of the gingerbread. “I didn’t know you were coming.”

“I got bored playing games at my house,” Desmond said. He sat in one of the tall chairs at the table and ran his finger over the edge of the gingerbread. It was still hot enough to make him pull his hand away with a hiss. 

“How many pieces of this do you need to make a gingerbread house?” Altair asked. He had stacks of them already sitting on the counter and a whole spread of decorations waiting on a sideboard. “I don’t have a clear memory of how to do this.”

“I do,” Desmond said. “This was my favorite part of Christmas. My Dad hated it so he never did it. I got to do it by myself. I could build a pretty good house.”

Altair dusted his hands off. “You can be on my team then.”

“Team?”

“Claudia says we have to see who can build the best gingerbread house. We have an odd number of people involved so I’m not sure how teams are going to work. I think she said Ezio wouldn’t do it even if we bet money on it.”

“Ezio doesn’t like building gingerbread houses,” Desmond said. He had complained about it almost in equal measure to William. “I’ll be on your team.”

“Good.” Altair motioned back to the stove. “Now help me fix the chocolate. It’s not right.”

They spent a while figuring out what was missing and only just barely got it right before Claudia and Lucy showed up to begin the gingerbread house building.

\--

son-of-no-one: building gingerbread houses with @EzioAuditore, @BestofThree, @Shirley-Templar, and @college4coffee #christmastraditions (10m ago)

Shirely-Templar: @son-of-no-one, the most important part of this tradition is of course fighting over who has the best one (9m ago)

college4coffee: @Shirley-Templar, @son-of-no-one, there’s no arguing. Mine is the best because I made it with @BestofThree. (4m ago)

BestofThree: @college4coffee, I think we can all agree that @EzioAuditore is the clear loser. #christmastraditions(2m ago)

Malik had spent the better part of his day watching his new kitten. He had taken his chair back from Kadar’s room, opened the window in his room to air out the dust while he cleaned. The kitten had pounced around on his bed, eaten food and fallen asleep in a little dimple on his pillow.

Malik read and napped with the kitten resting against his chest. He woke up to a series of photos on twitter showing off the handiwork of a bunch of idiot rich kids building gingerbread houses. Ezio’s was a pile of square pieces slathered with icing. Claudia and Lucy’s appeared to be some attempt at building a castle. Then there was the last one—one assumed Altair’s and Desmond’s—that was a more traditional looking home delicately decorated with precise details. It was shockingly detailed.

(And it got him thinking, maybe it wouldn’t be so terrible to have a twitter.)

\--

> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Desmond did that. He spent about two hours putting those strings of light on the house. I built it and he did all the decorating. 
> 
> Unrelated, you should put your blog on holiday hiatus. Assume everything I’m going to do for the next week is going to appear to be completely wrong. 
> 
> _S. Badger said_ :  
>  Which one of did the icing? I’m only asking because the strings of lights hanging off the roof of your gingerbread house are impressive.

“Son of a whore!” Ezio shouted from the bedroom where he’d taken up residence since he abandoned the hotel room. It was too early in the morning for Altair to care much about whatever it was that was upsetting his cousin. He stayed immersed in the hot water filling his bathtub and enjoyed the peaceful nothingness. His feeling of safety and peace was interrupted by the sudden slapping of the door that led into the bathroom. Ezio was standing there wearing nothing but unbuttoned pants with his hair still loose around his face.

“Just taking a bath,” Altair said.

“Federico,” Ezio spat the name like the very taste of it was so awful he could not bear to tolerate it another moment. “Has hired a lawyer for William!”

“So what?” Altair said, “he doesn’t stand a chance. The money is mine.” 

“He’s not going after your money. He intends to sue Desmond.” Ezio had the look of a man who needed to hit something. There was nothing easily slapped or kicked in the bathroom (most of it was made of glass) so he just clenched his fists again-and-again. “I told him that he was wrong and he said he could not believe a man that sided against his own family. We are all family!”

Altair considered the problem. “Have you figured out how to get Cristina to come out here yet?”

“Are you listening?” Ezio demanded.

“Yes. Federico is offended that I’ve convinced his siblings to join my side. They know that this is all about Desmond. And they’re doing me a favor by giving William the means to show his face. I’m going to bury that man alive.” All-in-all, it was a nice little early Christmas present. “Let your brother do what he has to do.”

“Do something,” Ezio said. “If you don’t speak first, William will and he’s far more likable than you are.” 

Altair sighed. “I’ll consider it.” Then they were left standing there like that, with Ezio looking outraged and Altair lying naked in water. He was quiet a moment before he motioned toward the door. “Are you going to stay?”

Then Ezio left with a huff.

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> Malik
> 
> I’m coming by to get you from school. We’re going to buy new coats.
> 
> How are you going to explain where you got the money to Mom?
> 
> I told her I am getting paid for maintaining a website.
> 
> That’s not the point. I’m coming to get you.
> 
> I’ll be outside the office doors.

When Malik finally got to the school (delayed by the fact that he’d forgotten the bus routes or they had changed them), Kadar had the distinct look of having been standing outside waiting for too long. There was a girl standing near (but not to near) to him while an older man (presumably her father) waited in the close distance. Kadar and the girl were talking sedately (about a school project, he found out when he was close enough to hear). 

“Malik,” Kadar said. He made it sound like delight but the strange cast to his face made it seem more like anxiety. The father of the girl looked up at the mention of his name and took several steps closer. “Amina this is my brother Malik.”

Amina smiled and Malik smiled back. “Assalam alaikum,” he said.

“Wa Alaikum Assalam,” she answered. Then she said good bye to his brother and went to her father who was watching the whole exchange. The two of them fell into talking about her day and how her tests had gone and the sound of that conversation faded as they got farther away.

“Isn’t she pretty?” Kadar said.

“I may be the wrong person to ask,” Malik said. He had a long standing habit of not looking at women’s faces for too long. (Not to mention, she hadn’t exactly been looking directly at him.) “I’m sure she is. Come on.” 

“What are you going to do about your blog?” Kadar asked. They were crowded in between the racks of the store, looking through coats for something that offered the appropriate level of warmth, water resistance and visual appeal. “Since your internet boyfriend thinks you should go on hiatus?”

He hadn’t had a lot of time to think about that. Most of his day was spent cleaning and clearing out his room interrupted by frequent breaks to play with his new kitten. Last night he’d made dinner for the family and they had sat around and talked about what they’d done since the last time they had seen one another. There had been a long discussion about what to name his poor kitten that was still without a name. “Self-preservation makes me think I should take the advice.”

“But you’re stubborn and stupid and want to get caught so you can expose him as a fraud and lair?” Kadar picked up a coat from the rack and went about trying it on and looking at himself in the mirror. Absent the hand-me-down he’d been wearing, the difference of the past few months was more obvious. Kadar wasn’t as round anymore. His jaw wasn’t as soft. He wasn’t sticking his tongue out at his reflection like he had the last time they’d gone shopping together but evaluating the coat for fit. 

“He’s not a liar or a fraud,” Malik said.

“That’s just because you like him now.” Kadar said. “From an outside point of view he’s still the same jerk that had sex with you while you were drunk and then ran off to freak out over how gay he wasn’t.” Then he turned and motioned at himself for an opinion of the coat he’d chosen. “I like it.”

“It could be because he’s gotten more mature,” Malik said.

“I am confident that it’s because he’s gotten more attractive. But for the sake of argument, sure he’s more mature. You should take his advice.”

“His advice also wants me to get a twitter,” Malik said. “He keeps asking me to get one or some kind of messenger. It’s pathetic.”

Kadar’s grin was brilliant. “What are you going to make him do to earn it? This is a golden opportunity! Ask him for something ridiculous.”

“I’m not—”

“What about making him wear girl clothes for a week? That would be amazing. He’d do that, right?” Kadar kept talking about how it made sense and how fitting it was since Altair was still stuck on the fact that women who dressed nicely or in a way that could be categorized as “slutty” might not want to be approached by guys. “You have to do it.”

“You’re insane. He won’t do it.”

“He will if you tell him to,” Kadar said. “I bet you he will. Get the black coat with the buttons. It makes you look taller.” Then they paid for their choices and walked around the stores that were overwhelmed with Christmas shoppers feeling quietly pleased to escape the madness.

\--

> [Video starts in Altair’s kitchen with the gingerbread house sitting on the counter in the distance. Altair is sitting (shirtless) with a mug between his hands and a beanie covering his hair.] 
> 
> Altair: Everyone wants to know what this family feud is about. It has been a frequent topic in recent interviews. People on the streets have stopped me to ask why I hate my family now. This one woman who lives in my building lectured me in the elevator about how I should be grateful that anyone would want me considering how I’m a godless heathen. While I have made some parts of the feud very public, I felt that the actual cause of it should not be made available for public consumption. Not because it involves me. 
> 
> Altair: The truth is the reason that I’m pissed at certain member of the Auditore family is that I recently found out that my cousin was emotionally abused and neglected by his Father for almost his entire childhood. I didn’t know that, I just knew that he came to live with my Grandmother and me when he was sixteen. I thought he was invited to live there with us but as it turns out he had run away by himself to escape his Father. 
> 
> Altair: Unfortunately, for my entire family—but especially for my cousin—my Grandmother died less than a year after that. This left him to decide between going back to live with his Father who was and is to this day, angry that my cousin caused him to lose the money he felt was owed to him by my Grandmother and going to live with the Auditore family that did not believe any of the abuse happened. 
> 
> Altair: It has come to my attention that members of the Auditore family are actually in the process of funding yet another attempt by my uncle, William Miles, to extract money that he feels is owed him. While this is offensive enough by itself, it is made even more unbearably awful by the fact that the alleged plan involves trying to get the money from my cousin. 
> 
> Altair: So, to those members of the Auditore family that have decided this is best course of action and to Mr. William Miles who spent sixteen years convincing the best member of my family that he was a worthless, ugly, waste of time and space that could only earn his keep by begging for money from his relatives—I say, _fuck you_. [Altair smiles and the video ends.]  
> 

Desmond had helped edit the video and had been sitting on the opposite side of the table the whole time Altair made the stupid thing. It was unnecessarily coy, really. It was certainly much more restrained that he expected. The anger that was vibrating off Altair was enough to make someone feel like they were suffocating just by being near him. 

“When is Claudia going to get Cristina?”

“She’s going out on Saturday and bringing her back Sunday,” Altair said. He was leaning back against the counter with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I was thinking after Christmas we should go hide in the doghouse. Someone is going to find us but we don’t have to make it easy for them.”

That was a fun thought. The (so-called) doghouse was the five bedroom house built on Grandma’s estate. It was where Grandpa lived until he died (in shame). In comparison to the magnificent mansion it was a paltry, plain little home. It was a fitting place to hide. “Sure,” he said. “I asked Edward to come but he said that he already had plans. But he’s going to support us on twitter or something.”

“Good,” Altair said. “Do we really have to have fried eel just because the Italians like it?”

“I think you should probably just shut up and let them make it,” Desmond said. “Lucy is making ham. You can eat that.”

Altair sighed. “Fine. Want to help me wrap presents?” 

“I can’t believe you didn’t just have the people at the store do it for you,” Desmond said. “But sure.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> my brother got me a cat.
> 
> What’s its name?
> 
> Sailor. He found it in a big puddle.
> 
> We’ve been arguing about this name for a week
> 
> It’s a good name.
> 
> Thanks
> 
> Merry Christmas. I’ll probably forget if I wait.
> 
> Thank you. Happy Sunday to you.

Malik had nothing to but free time following the decision to put the blog on hiatus. Kadar was out of school for the next few weeks. This close to Christmas going out in public was a mistake (too many crazy people out there) but being stuck inside left him feeling lazy and dull. He’d read through all of the books that he had brought with him. He was putting distance between himself and the drama of Altair’s family feud. (He was pretending to anyway. While he watched and waited for any developments following the video debuting on Friday. So far, the Auditore family had declined to make a comment and the general public was swept up in Christmas.)

“Kadar!” he shouted. Sailor was startled out of the light doze he was enjoying on Malik’s chest. “I’m bored!”

“You wouldn’t be if you got your boyfriend to wear lady clothes a week!”

“You need to get over that!”

Kadar came to stand in his doorway. “It’s snowing. We could go make a snowman.”

“You’re almost seventeen years old. I’m almost twenty. We are not going outside to build a snowman.” He picked the kitten up off his chest and set him down on the bed next to him. “I will go outside and throw snow at you, however.”

“You have never beat me,” Kadar said. “Unless you cheat.”

“It’s not cheating. It’s strategic thinking.” He got off his bed while Kadar protested all the ways he’d ever cheated at snowball fights. They were still having the argument in the yard, packing the snow into round balls as they tried to find defensible positions on the yard. Mother made it home before they had finished the war. She stood by the back door with a sweet (indulgent) smile up until they tried to get back in the house. Then she pointed at their snow covered bodies and shook her head.

\--

BestofThree: shame on you, @FedericotheFirst. #IbelieveDesmondMiles (2h ago)

coffee4college: @FedericotheFirst, still time to make it right. #IbelieveDesmondMiles (2h ago)

Im-not-drunk: @FedericotheFirst, you were supposed to be the better role model. Now you’re married to some woman because you got her pregnant, supporting a reported abuser (1h ago)

Im-not-drunk: @FedericotheFirst, against the best member of our family. If I had to choose a side, I’d pick the side of the man who never said a cross word about anyone, (1h ago)

Im-not-drunk: @FedericotheFirst, not you. #IbelieveDesmondMiles (1h ago)

Ezio_Auditore: @FedericotheFirst, the best advice you gave me was: a real man will admit when he is wrong. You are wrong. #IbelieveDesmondMiles (55m ago)

Ms_Cristina_Auditore: @FedericotheFirst, I’m sorry I won’t be able to make it to Christmas this year. #IbelieveDesmondMiles (40m ago)

Son-of-no-one: for the first time since my Grandmother died, I am spending Christmas Eve with my real family. There is no better feeling in the world,

Son-of-no-one: than being surrounded by people that love and support you. Wish you were here, @FedericotheFirst. #IbelieveDesmondMiles

The picture that accompanied the last tweet was the whole sum of bodies—Claudia, Ezio, Cristina, Altair and Lucy squeezed in tight around a chair where Desmond, with his head tipped down so his face was only partially visible, was sitting holding Vincenzio in one arm. All of them were smiling, wearing their best Christmas clothes, with their middle fingers saluting the camera.

\--

> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Merry Christmas, Sass. I hope you’re with family wherever you are and that you are loved. You deserve it. (Even if you’re a pain in my ass.
> 
> _S. Badger said_ :  
>  If you were hoping to send one final message to your family, I sincerely hope that this final slight was enough to make your point known. While I assume it was not your intention, there are many people on twitter that are using #IbelieveDesmondMiles to show their support of you and to share their own stories of abuse. Don’t forget to continue supporting this cause even after you’ve gotten what you want. It really is important.
> 
> Merry Christmas, Altair.

Altair had spent a week moving mistletoe around, sticking it to doorframes and the ceiling and suspending it above the table. Desmond had spent a week avoiding it. He’d mapped out all the obvious places that it was and had even taken to looking upward before he went under any doorframe or came to a full stop anywhere near another person. He’d agreed to sleep at Altair’s place because it was simplest. 

He hadn’t realized he would be waking up on the couch (all of the beds were taken, according to everyone else) to find the entire ceiling over the couch covered in sprigs of mistletoe. It was almost inconceivable to imagine that someone could have managed to do that in the room with him without making some kind of noise or accidentally dropping some of it on his face.

Desmond groaned as he sat up and rubbed his face with his hand. He turned his head toward the flash of pink in his peripheral vision and found Lucy sitting there on the coffee table in her pajamas. “This is not subtle,” he said.

Lucy shrugged. “In my defense, I did not know that he was going to do this.”

Desmond put his feet on the floor outside of hers and leaned forward so he wasn’t sinking back into the couch. Their knuckles were touching where they both had their hands clasped together. “Lucy, I just—”

“Before you say anything else. I didn’t know that he was going to do this and if I had I would have told him not to. I love you, Desmond. I love you even if you can’t love me right now. I walked into this and I was going to walk back out but—I couldn’t. I do want you to love me.”

“I do,” Desmond said. Because it was true. He loved her more than he should and it was the single most terrifying thing he’d ever felt. He wanted to be able to give her all the things that she deserved but the reality still remained that the most ambitious thing he did most days was brush his teeth and make breakfast. 

“Kiss me,” Lucy said, “just once. Then we can go back to what we were doing.”

It didn’t seem like so much. His heart was jackhammering in his chest when he nodded and she leaned forward in the space between them with her smooth hand slipping up across his rough cheek. She smelled like mint and he was a gross, unshaven mess. Her lips were soft against his as her eyes closed and he put his hand on her shoulder and pressed back into the kiss. 

“Merry Christmas,” Lucy whispered to him.


	27. Chapter 27

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Dear Sass,  
>  It is day three of exile and already I feel my mind begin to slip away from me. I remember freedom as a distant mirage—a wavering image of filled with bright lights, colorful drinks and pretty women interested in having sex with me. All of that is gone now. My reality is limited by the confining walls of the small and colorless hell-hole I am forced to inhabit with my fellow criminals. Nearly all of them relatives; none of which could conceivably be sexual partners. 
> 
> I am deprived. I wither away from lack of stimuli.
> 
> Pray for me.

Malik had started cackling (not laughing, not chuckling, not gently expressing amusement but full out shrieking witch-cackles) a good five minutes before Kadar gave up the pretense of not being interested. He dragged himself away from his (warm, comfortable) bed and went to find his (idiot) brother sitting at his desk holding onto his chest with both arms and laughing so hard there were tears on his face. 

“Aw,” Kadar said when he read it. “The poor baby just wants to have sex again.”

“He’s such an idiot,” Malik said. But as far as condemnations went it was a poor one. There wasn’t enough venom in Malik’s voice to make it believable. In a world where everyone and everything was potentially problematic (as Malik often thought they were), the fondness in the Malik’s face in reaction to this stupid message was almost unbelievable. “What?” Malik asked. His cheeks were pink-spotted and he was _smiling_. “What?” he repeated.

“I’m just trying to figure out if,” (you’re falling in love with this idiot), “I’m going to turn into this kind of stupid after I have sex.”

The response to his worry was just a snort as Malik wiped his tears with the back of his hand. “No. Because you’re saving yourself for marriage.”

“I don’t see how marriage saves me from stupidity stemming from my penis--also I never said that I was saving myself for marriage.” That was just an idea that he was exploring like many of the ideas for Islam that he’d recently become aware of with a new level of understanding. Sailor crept out from under the bed (probably relieved that the shrieking noise had stopped) and attacked the leg of Kadar’s pants with his little paws.

“I assumed,” Malik said. 

Sailor meowed a war cry as he yanked at the leg of Kadar’s pants and ended up rolling onto his back to bite at the hem. Kadar moved his foot back and forth across the wood floor and the kitten held on tight as he went sliding freely across the floor. “What are you going to say in reply?”

“I don’t know,” Malik said. “I haven’t decided.”

Kadar rolled his eyes and left.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Altair,
> 
> When freedom seems like an illusion and sex partners are rare, remember that though God may seemed to have abandoned us, there is still proof of his love. We need look no farther than our dominant hands to find some relief from the interminable darkness of celibacy. 
> 
> I wish you luck surviving this dark and painful period, friend.  
>  Sass.

The doghouse (as it was called with no fondness at all) was dusty with disuse when they finally arrived. Lucy had to work the day after Christmas, Altair had a brief argument with Mrs. Finch about whether or not he could get the keys to the doghouse. Mrs. Finch was of the opinion that their rebellious party shouldn’t disturb the sanctity of the memorial to their late grandfather and Altair was of the opinion that he owned the damn thing and he could go there if he wanted.

By the time they got inside the front door of the doghouse, their rebellion (so hot only a few days before) had reached a cooling point where they were nothing but a bunch of idiots too young and too impetuous to know what to do next. 

“Can I sign up to marry rich?” Lucy asked. “This is a punishment?”

Ezio dropped his bag and reached over to flip on the light switch that made all the lights in the house power on. The entry way was a mundane white color with a long coat closet against one wall and two exits that took a visitor to either a formal room for receiving guests (obviously unused) or to a living space filled with couches situated around a massive fireplace. “Let us hope that his bar was not pillaged when he died,” Ezio said. 

“I hope not,” Altair said.

Claudia sighed. “You fools open the windows and shake the dust out of the linens. Make sure the kitchen is clean enough to be used. We’re going to go buy groceries.” Then she took Lucy (protesting all the way about how she hated shopping) and Cristina and left.

There were five bedrooms in the old dog house. Three of them meant to be for adults and two of them for the children that never visited. Desmond took the rooms with the bunk beds, Ezio claimed the rooms with the queen beds and that left Altair to stand in the room his Grandfather had used as his own bedroom. It was the only part of the house that had character. The only part of it where Grandfather displayed the things that mattered to him. 

Altair opened the windows and stripped the bed to shake out the linens (he wasn’t sure why he bothered). Then he stood in front of the long dresser and picked-up-set-down the variety of this-and-that he found in little puddles of dust. The wall over the dresser was covered in framed artwork from Grandfather’s illegitimate children and grandchildren. Mama Maria’s a wrinkled piece of paper covered in butterflies that were drawn with crayons (crudely rounded), one by Edward that was a watercolor picture of a sailboat, William’s a horse and a pig. Then there was Maud’s (his Mother’s) that was the classic-kid-picture of a house with a chimney. The cloud above the house and the tree that was a round and green atop a skinny stick of brown meant to be a trunk. There were no people in her picture and her house had only one window and no door. 

It was her name, scrawled in little-kid-print that Altair ran his finger over. It was just glass under his fingertip but he smiled anyway. Then he wiped his hands on his jeans and went back out of the room. 

Desmond and Ezio were in the kitchen rinsing off dishes. “We found Edward’s underwear,” Ezio said. He nodded at a stack of kid’s clothes thrown across the island in the middle of the kitchen. They were the kinds of clothes that a four year old might have worn. Small and white and embarrassing. Edward’s name was written across the waistband as if there had been anyone else around that might have tried to claim them. “What did you find?”

“Art, cigars. Why aren’t they back yet? I’m hungry.” 

“We sent three women out to do grocery shopping. We will be lucky if they return at all,” Ezio said, “we might have to forage for food.” He laughed when Desmond slapped him with a dish towel. 

But the humor was strained. The warmth of rebellion was fading. 

 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Dear Sass,
> 
> I am locked in a tomb. I can’t breathe deep enough to get air. My head is cloudy with the dust that covers every available surface. The unanswered cry of rebellion is growing steadily stagnant as the party of unhappy rebels try to make the best of our barbaric conditions. I fear that if we do not have an answer soon, madness will overtake our group.
> 
>  
> 
> More importantly, my attempts at satisfying my own needs were not nearly as effective before I had the happy image of you employing the same methods. Sex is often best when shared with others.

Malik had gone to take a shower. His laptop was left open (on a blank browser) while he went and when he got back, Sailor was standing on the keyboard with one cautious paw on the screen and the hair going down his back standing on end. Whatever he’d accidentally searched for seemed to offend him on a molecular level. 

Malik snapped a quick picture with his phone and managed to catch Sailor with his little white paw halfway up to batting the screen again and his mouth open to offer another offended mewl. Then he went and picked the kitten up, rested him against his collarbone and hummed at the worried meows that explained how the machine had offended the poor kitten. 

Apparently, he was going to have to put more effort into animal-proofing his room. “We should get you something you can climb on,” he said and Sailor answered by chewing on the long tips of his wet hair.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Remain strong. Your cause is just.
> 
> Solo sex might not be as satisfying to our bodies but I feel like I should make a resolution to sleep around less. Not because I don’t enjoy it but because I’m not sure what good it’s doing for me and there are things that used to matter more to me than sex.

Ezio found Grandpa’s liquor supply in the skinny room beyond the living room where the bar was well stocked and the lights were perpetually dim. There were four big arm chairs, a tall table spread with an unfinished poker game, the lingering stink of cigar smoke and a single record player situated so as to provide the best sound. The records that were on the shelves covering the far wall were all classics.

Altair had followed the sound of Italian opera through the abandoned lower level of the house, past the empty kitchen with the dishes left drying across the countertops and around the empty living room where the couch cushions were still disturbed with the size and shape of the bodies that had recently been there. The tall, thin door that led to the bar was hidden around a corner.

Ezio was sitting in the arm chair closest to the record player with his feet up on the edge of the table, his feet crossed at ankle and a tumbler full of something brown pressed against his forehead. His mouth was caught in a resting-grimace but his eyes fluttered open at the squeal of the door opening. 

There a second tumbler sitting on the top of the bar and the glass bottle holding (brandy, perhaps) sitting next to it. Altair helped himself (feeling distinctly juvenile to be allowed in such a sacred and obviously _mature_ place). He walked over to sit in the chair opposite Ezio and watched him lower the glass away from where it had been pressed into his brow hard enough to leave a pink mark. 

“We must speak practically,” Ezio said. He pulled his feet down from the table and set them on the floor. The tumbler was set on a coaster built into the side of the table. He scratched his fingers through his loose hair and ran his tongue across his lips. “What do you intend to do if your plan fails? What will we do if it is not my mother but my father or my brother that finds us first?”

“I hadn’t considered it. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Giovanni trying to handle something like this.”

“You think my father is useless,” Ezio said softly. It was a conceding gesture. (Really, nothing more than the acknowledgement that all of them—all of the men of this family—were hardly as impressive or fearsome as the women they answered to.) “My mother is most likely. You need to know that, though I may believe in Desmond and while I believe in what we’ve done—I am not willing to hurt my brother more than I have to. If he comes for a fight, it will not be me that he finds.”

“Yeah well, I’ve got Lucy.”

Ezio snorted. “What is her story? Have you had her past looked into?”

“That’s not a thing that I do. That’s a thing that you and your family does. I like to think that people aren’t that bad and are capable of telling me the relevant things before I conduct extensive background checks of them without their knowledge.” Altair took a drink and relaxed back into the chair. He tipped his head back against the soft cushions and looked at the smoke stains on the ceiling. 

Grandfather was an unexplored region of his family, someone that was known but not spoken of. Grandmother had stricken him from holidays and family memory and it was only his death that made a memorable hiccup in Altair’s childhood. 

“I wish whoever was coming would just get here,” Altair said softly.

“Do not wish too hard, you might not like what comes.” Then Ezio picked up his own drink and raised it in a toast before taking a drink and resuming his quiet appreciation of the opera.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I had sex with far too many people this year. Maybe if we both resolve to do better this year we’ll stand a chance at keeping that resolution. I’m usually terrible at them so I save myself the inevitable disappointment by simply not bothering to make any. But if there are two of us, we can help one another. For instance, if you had a messenger program that allowed me to tell you I was having very lustful thoughts about the girl in love with my cousin, you could tell me to stop being perverted because she’s basically my sister at this point.
> 
> Exile is hard. At this point, even the other men are looking attractive. Save me.  
> 

Kadar was sitting far too close next to him on the couch. It was a habit that had survived since they were very young. Kadar simply did not understand personal space or he was selectively blind to all the other available seats. His elbow was digging into Malik’s and the imprint of his too-close body was a sweat smear across Malik’s left side. “Oh,” Kadar said almost in perfect synch with Malik finishing reading the E-mail, “if you don’t demand he spends a week in miniskirts, I will no longer acknowledge you as my brother.”

“That might be as close as he’s ever going to come to admitting he finds men attractive,” Malik said. 

“I think he was closer to admitting it when he stuck his penis in your butt,” Kadar said. “Don’t let the fact that you like the guy keep you from making him suffer for his stupidity.”

That was frankly ridiculous. Malik slapped the computer shut and turned to look at Kadar who just looked back at him with heavenly innocence shining all around him. The halo effect was dimmed somewhat by the maturing set of his jaw and the fact that he was finally getting facial hair that grew in awkward little patches sparse and inconsistent. “First, you need to stop talking about my butt. Second, I don’t like him.”

“You do.”

Malik did not.

“I’m not saying that you’re in love with him. He’s your friend. Normal people have friends. Since you don’t hate yourself anymore, you should think about getting more of them. If Leonardo is your friend you have sex with, Altair can be your friend that you lust after but don’t have sex with. Then you need a friend you don’t want to have sex with to even it out.”

Malik shoved his elbow into Kadar’s ribs as he got up. “I’m not his friend.”

“He thinks you are,” Kadar said. 

That, more than the teasing of before, made Malik stop and look back at his brother. It was a realization that Malik had been working his way around (rather than looking at it straight on). “Yeah,” he said after a long pause. “I know.”

“He doesn’t have a lot of those. He respects you and he likes you. Which is exactly why he’d wear lady clothes for a week if you ask him to. So, take advantage of his vulnerable loyalty to you.” Kadar waggled his eyebrows at him and Malik turned around and left him there.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> If the woman is basically your sister, your actual cousins are probably very much like your brothers. If this is the case, having lustful thoughts about them is morally wrong and you should stop. In moments of extreme desperation, masturbate in front of a mirror. Then you can lust after yourself.
> 
> Since I do not want to get a twitter but you very much want me to get one, I propose a trade. You perform a bet for me and I, in return, will get a twitter or a messenger. (One, not both, so choose wisely.) If you’re interested, let me know.

It was December fucking twenty-ninth and not a single member of the Auditore family had bothered to show their face or attempt to make contact of any kind. Claudia said that the media had a field day with their tweets and had gone around interviewing anyone they thought was relevant but there had been no official rebuttal from the family. 

The people who managed Altair’s public image sent him a message to inform him that several parties expressed interest in using this explosion in public interest in abuse to educate the ignorant masses. They wanted to use Altair’s face since he was well-known and familiar. (Which, fair enough, was what Desmond said he wanted to happen if Altair used his story.)

But it was the twenty-ninth and they were in the house that Grandpa died in, growing gray with nothing while they waited for some catastrophe that didn’t seem like it was going to happen. Desmond was in the sunroom at the back of the house—all windows, sunny-warm even with the snow thick on the ground—bent over the piano as he plucked at the keys. 

“Sounds awful,” Altair said. He didn’t sit but stand by the windows and look at the bleak white nothing. “I thought you learned how to play.”

“You were supposed to think that,” Desmond said. He stopped pressing random keys and turned around on the bench to look at Altair staring out the windows. “Hear anything yet?”

“Nope,” Altair said. “I think I might go insane if they don’t show up soon. I can’t imagine why Federico hasn’t shown up yet. We took his _wife_. We’re not even well-hidden.”

Desmond shrugged.

“I’m bored!” Claudia announced when she found them. “I expected threats! Violence! Confrontation! The most we’ve managed is a great depressing wealth of other abuse victims speaking out about their own experiences.” She looked at Desmond, “you should say something to them, Desmond. They are speaking to you.”

 

“I don’t think I’m the role model they should aspire to be,” Desmond said. “I don’t even know what I would say.” 

 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> So, probably a bad idea to play strip poker with my two good looking male cousin and the woman who is basically my sister? I think it’s a terrible idea but I’ve been overruled by Lucy. She says “you’ve all seen one another naked anyway”. 
> 
> Tell me what the bet is and I’ll decide what it’s worth.

For the record, playing poker with his cousins was an awful idea even if everyone kept their clothes on. Ezio was a charming bluffer, Desmond was an out-right card shark, Claudia (who did not play) possessed a poker face made out of iron. Extreme boredom and lack of anything better to do (combined with early-afternoon-drinking) was the only reason he’d agreed.

Cristina had helped along by saying, “the only one worth playing against is Ezio. I heard Altair never learned anything but Go Fish and Desmond is—Desmond. He hasn’t done anything as devious as playing poker in his life.”

“Oh yeah, pure driven snow,” Ezio said with a laugh.

Lucy was grinning as she pulled an extra shirt on. “I’ll take my chances. Let’s do this.”

To be fair, Altair had a hard time understanding the rules of poker. Part of it was his fault for lack of interest and the rest of it was Ezio who had purposefully taught him how to lose at the game. So the fact that Altair was running low on clothes far sooner than anyone else surprised nobody.

Lucy got down to her panties and bra about the same time that Altair was clinging to his boxers and thinking viciously unhappy thoughts about how he should have worn a third shirt and another pair of socks. Ezio was still wearing pants and Desmond had only lost his socks. 

“Never did anything devious in your life,” Lucy said to Desmond. “Are there any other lies I should know about?”

Desmond grinned. “I didn’t say I didn’t know how to play poker. She did,” he motioned at Cristina who was watching but not playing. She was holding Vincenzo cradled in her arms while they shouted and complained and made a great deal of noise. The baby slept on despite the noise (and that was nice of him, really). “You’re still doing better than Altair.”

“That does not mean much,” Ezio said.

“Fuck you.” Altair was going to lose this hand too. Folding would just result in him having to wait until the next hand to take his boxers off and deal with the obnoxious comments of his cousins and the unknown reactions of the two females. He was all in favor of getting unpleasant things over with so he held onto his worthless cards. 

Desmond (naturally) won the hand and sat back with a perfectly pleased smirk. Ezio grumbled and stood up to strip his pants off. He was wearing boxer-briefs under and he sat down again like daring anyone to say anything about his choice in undergarments. 

Lucy was staring at Altair’s lap with far too much glee. “You first,” she said.

“No you,” Altair said. “I guarantee you that everyone here would rather see your tits than my testicles.” He wasn’t modest by nature, only because Lucy seemed inordinately interested.

“I have been dying to accidentally catch you naked ever since the jeans ad. I _need_ to know. You first—Desmond, tell him he has to go first.” That was, frankly, cheating. But Lucy’s sweet smile and motioning hand drew Desmond’s attention over at Altair.

“Just do it,” Desmond said.

Altair stood up and grumbled under his breath about horny females as he shimmied out of his boxers. He bent over and picked them up then spread his arms and tried very hard not to care about the pointed way Lucy was staring at his penis. Her eyes went a little round and her cheeks pinked up in that porcelain-doll sort of way they did. 

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Are you serious?” Then she pressed her fingers across her lips and turned her head to look at Desmond and glanced at his lap before looking back at Altair. Her voice was a too-loud-stage-whisper saying, “so I know you’ve got similar faces but what about your dicks, does yours look like that?”

Desmond sighed but didn’t look at Altair’s penis (because he was a good guy). Cristina leaned forward across her infant child to look and Ezio rolled his eyes at the drama. “Uh,” Desmond said, “not exactly. Altair’s the biggest dick in the family in multiple ways.”

“Christ,” Lucy said. She stood up and reached behind her back to undo her bra. It slid down her arms as her breasts dropped from the enforced perky set to a natural sag. Her perfectly white skin was precisely the same shade all save her pinkish-brown nipples and the faint stretch marks on her breasts that were a paler shade. She sat down again and picked her cards up and threw them back into the deck. 

Altair sat back down too, dropped his boxers in his lap and pulled his legs up to cross them on the chair in front of him. He didn’t have to play anymore now that he’d lost. He dug his phone out of the side of the cushion. “Nice tits,” he said.

“Thanks,” Lucy said.

Ezio looked at them with a critical eye, the way one might look at a work of art. Cristina said, “they are very nice.” Desmond didn’t look even out of the corner of his eye but look very pointedly at the cards spread across the table. He was gathering them up to shuffle and deal. 

“Are you okay, cousin?” Ezio asked.

“Shut up,” Desmond said. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> The first and most important part of this (and any future bets) is that until the conclusion of the bet you cannot tell anyone that it is a bet. You have to proceed as if this were all your own idea and/or offer no explanation for your actions. This is the most important thing.
> 
> The actual bet is that I want you to wear only women’s clothing for an entire week, Sunday to Saturday and you have to go out in public at least once a day.
> 
> I fell this will help you understand why a woman would chose to dress however she pleases regardless of how other people might perceive her intentions. Feel free to wear whatever sort of clothing you feel comfortable in and then come back and tell me how you felt when people stared at you.

“This bitch is crazy,” Altair said loudly enough that he was easily heard in the kitchen from halfway down the stairs at the back of the house. Desmond was frying sausage patties for breakfast while Claudia sat at the island drinking coffee and grinding her teeth at her phone and its persistent silence. 

“Why?” Desmond asked when Altair finally made it to the kitchen. 

“What?” Altair slid his phone into his back pocket before he pulled open the fridge and pulled the juice out. There was a cup on the counter (specifically left there for Altair to use) but the jerk still drank directly out of the carton. 

“The crazy bitch?” Desmond asked.

“Oh, nothing,” Altair said. He put the juice back. “Anything from your family?”

“Nothing, I even texted my Mother this morning and there was no response. I’ve tried calling my Father and nothing. Not only have they failed to react as I expected, they have actually simply ceased responding.” She stood up and huffed a sigh. “I’m going to take a walk.”

Desmond didn’t watch her go but waited until she was gone. “Ezio’s not a lot better than that. William used to tell me that I was selfish. When I was ten or eleven I started fighting back, telling him that I would tell everyone what he was like and what he did. How he put locks on the cabinets and made me rake leaves when he was angry at me. What he said to me—and he said, _they won’t believe you and even if they did, I’d break my family._ ”

“William is a dick,” Altair said. But it was December thirty first, a week since they had launched their final attack on the Auditore family and the lack of reaction was troubling at best. “He was wrong, Desmond. You didn’t do this.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I find it unreasonable that you live so far away.
> 
> Sorry
> 
> How do you feel about sexting?
> 
> I think its stupid
> 
> I’m also certain you have an eidetic memory
> 
> So, just pretend I’m there.
> 
> Memory does not allow for the surprising variables that make sex an enjoyable experience. 
> 
> I’ll be at school when spring semester starts. I am bored.
> 
> Well that’s convenient for my resolution
> 
> You made a resolution to sleep with less people?
> 
> Yes.

Sailor was very fond of his mother’s long apron. It was too far off the ground for the kitten to reach but the fraying strings from the bottom were a constant source of entertainment for him. Malik liked to sit in the kitchen and watch the kitten scuttle after his Mother’s feet in an attempt to finally attain his goal. 

Maybe he found the camera, maybe he took a few snap shots of the kitten (mouth open, paws out) trying to get the strings. It was a nice thing to concentrate on while he was waiting for Altair to respond to him. It was a nice way to spend his time not worrying over how he’d gone off and become friends with the jerk.

“That is really annoying, actually,” Mother said. She scooted the kitten away from her feet and Malik grabbed him before he could go back. “Let me see the pictures.” Then she smiled at them when she saw them. The kitten was snowy-white and fluffy in a decidedly angelic way even when it was misbehaving. “Have you commissioned your brother to send you daily photos of Sailor while you are at school?”

“That’s a good idea. I will now,” Malik said. The kitten pulled himself up onto his shoulder and dug his tiny claws in to keep from falling. 

“I’m certain Kadar will be thrilled to do it,” Mother said. They were both aware that wasn’t even vaguely true. But Kadar would do it anyway because he was a good kid.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Going to the old house
> 
> To climb the staircases for fun
> 
> You’re invited to come if you want
> 
> Thank you but no. 

Altair did not make it to the old house’s fantastic staircases (they were many and varied) because the side kitchen door was locked (Mrs. Finch was most likely taking the day off) so he had to circle around to the front doors. When he got there he was greeted by a sleek black car parked in the circle drive and the slim, straight figure of his Aunt stepping through the snow that had yet to be properly shoveled. From the expression of surprise on her face, she clearly had not expected to find him tromping through the snow the way he had not expected to see her.

Mama Maria recovered first. Her coat was cut to accentuate the natural curves of her body and to give her a dignified, (nearly regal) look. Her perfect posture matched the tone of authority in her voice, “I believe we should talk.”

Altair was wearing jeans he hadn’t bothered to wash since they got to the doghouse, snow boots that he found in the closet by the door, a coat that he was pretty sure belonged to Desmond—puffy and pleasantly warm—with his wrinkly beanie pulled down over his ears and forehead. His face was stinging red from cold and his fists were shoved into his pockets because he was too stupid to remember to put on gloves. He was twenty-one and stupid, standing in front of a house that used to be home— _his_ home, _her_ home before Mama Maria decided to turn her back on Desmond. There were so many things he wanted to say to her, so many awful things he wanted to shout. Six-seven days ago he could have unleashed an endless stream of hateful judgment on her. 

Now. 

Oh-now, he took five more steps to put himself directly in front of her. Their bodies a respectful distance apart. Their faces a mirror of civility. Altair said, “tell me why you let them hurt Desmond. Grandma _had_ to tell you the truth.”

Mama Maria drew in a breath in through her pink-edged nose and turned her head just enough to look at the old house. Her lips flattened and she nodded ever so slightly. “Yes, Phyllis told me what she believed. Please understand, Altair, that we do not all have the benefit of blind loyalty. I grew up with William, here—at this home. He came in the summers while I was here and we played together as children. We climbed these trees, we carved our names into the playroom wall. He was discontent as a child but he was not vicious. I did not believe he was capable of what he was accused of. There was no proof.”

“There is fucking proof!” Altair shouted at her. He didn’t mean to but civility failed him. “Just look at Desmond!”

“But he was always that way,” Mama Maria said softly.

Altair wanted to hit her so bad it was a taste in his mouth. He wanted to slap her stupid mouth and his hands in his pockets tightened until the keys he was clutching in his right hand bit into the flesh of his palm. “Get off my property,” he said instead.

“Phyllis told me that Desmond had been abused by William,” Mama Maria said instead of leaving. “It was no secret that Desmond was making that claim, even when news is not meant to pass through out family, it finds its way naturally. William had already called Giovanni and told him that Desmond had run off because he was sick of doing work. Giovanni respects William for maintaining a farm. He respects him for the hard labor that takes and for William’s honor and ability to work despite the many financial difficulties he’d suffered. Giovanni expects sons should follow their father’s example and show respect.” Mama Maria sighed softly, “I thought the best of William, Altair. Imagine how you would feel if you were told that Desmond is not a martyr but a villain?”

“The difference between Desmond and William is that William hurt a _child_ and you not only failed to protect the child but you actually _helped_ the abuser! You made it worse! You took him into your house and you let your stupid rabid family _hurt_ him more. You come here asking me to imagine something that I _can’t_. Do you think I stole your children through tricks? Smoke and mirrors? They _know_ Desmond is telling the truth. Ezio _saw_ it!”

“Did he?” Mama Maria asked. “He sat in the room, the same as the rest of us, and let his brother say whatever he wished about Desmond. He stood next to his Father while Giovanni raged about thankless sons and said nothing.”

“That’s why I slapped him like a bitch,” Altair snarled.

“I know.” Mama Maria smoothed her hand down the front of her coat and cleared her throat. She took a moment to compose her face. “You are very much like Phyllis, Altair. You are as exacting, absolute and unyielding as she was. Your assault on my family has been relentless and thorough. I am not moved by these primitive displays of power. I have weathered worse storms.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“I am here because of Edward.”

Altair could not even come up with a reply to the unexpected turn the conversation took. He stood there with his mouth hanging open and the whole world around him a sudden void of nonsense. When he managed to recover, Mama Maria had already continued on.

“Phyllis asked me to look after Edward when she removed everyone else from her will. She believed it was not his fault that he was wayward and embarrassing. He was not made for this life and I believed her. Edward has the potential to be an extraordinary person but he chooses to live a simple life. I respect this about him even if I cannot publicly acknowledge it. It is true that he was sent away because he was a poor role model for others. What he said about Federico is also true. After Christmas, he called me—he has never called me, Altair. He said: the only evidence I needed to believe Desmond was to consider what Desmond has done since he left my home. He said to ask myself if Desmond’s actions were the actions of a money-hungry child who hated hard labor and thought poorly of his father.” Here, Mama Maria paused. For a moment her lips pressed together and a faint dampness came to her eyelids like a reddening shame that made her voice crack when she tried to speak again. She stopped and swallowed and was quiet another moment while she composed herself. “I invited William to my house. I sat him at my family’s table in the presence of my son and my husband and I asked him if he hurt Desmond.”

“And he lied,” Altair said.

“He lied,” she agreed. But she was not finished. “I told him that I needed the truth regardless of what it was. I said I could not proceed unless I knew it. Then I looked at my son—he is furious, you understand, to be shamed—and I said the same to him. I need the truth.” A soft smile touched her face. “Federico may seem very much like a villain to you, but understand that while his mind is difficult to change, the united stand you took against William broke his resolve. He was very anxious to extract the truth.”

Altair nodded.

“William confessed his sins to my husband and my son,” Mama Maria said. “So, I am here to ask what our next step will be, Altair? What do we do now that the skeletons in our closet have been thrown into the public eye?” 

Grovel. Beg. 

Altair drew a breath in and felt it shudder around the heated inside of his chest before he let it out again. His whole body felt tight and vibrating with unfulfillable anger. There was no relief—not at all the way he wanted—but an unsatisfying knowledge that he’d won. “If it were my decision, I would hang William Miles from a bridge and your family would spend the rest of their lives begging for forgiveness you didn’t deserve.”

“Phyllis would be proud of you, at least.”

“It’s not my choice,” Altair said rather than address the nature of his vengeance-seeking Grandmother. “It’s up to Desmond.”

“Will he speak with me?” Mama Maria asked.

Altair shrugged. Then he motioned at the doors of the old house. The key had left a bloody imprint in his hand from being squeezed so hard in his fist. “I’ll call him when we’re inside.” Then he stomped a path through the snow to the doors. 

\--

Shirley_Templar: To everyone that shared a story on @IBelieveDesmondMiles, believe in yourselves that you are worthwhile, beautiful people, stronger than anyone that tried to hurt you. (10m ago)

Desmond did not make the walk from the doghouse to the old house by himself. He was flanked on all sides by the people that had chosen to stand next to him against their own family. Lucy was closest to his side, near but not touching, while Ezio led their poor fellowship with a grim frown on his face.

By the time they made it to the kitchen of the old house—in through the side door opened by Altair—Desmond had gone from certain of what he wanted from Mama Maria to regretful of ever having agreed to this ridiculous plan. He made it over the threshold and stood in the comforting circle of friends while he dusted snow off his sleeves and worked up the courage to say anything.

Mama Maria was alone, at the table, looking sophisticated with her chin held up and her whole body betraying the anxiety that she felt over her reception. These were her children standing with him. Her grandchild that had been taken from her. When she stood up, her long fingers dragged across the polished table top before lifting away entirely. “Desmond,” she said. Her voice was not fragile because nothing about her was. She said, “I am sorry.”

Altair had given him a general rundown of how the conversation had gone, the basic necessities to know: she was there, she had left Federico and Giovanni alone with William to _extract the truth_ and now she was there to find out what she should do next. Desmond had a few dozen ideas and about half of them involved telling her to go fuck herself because it was too-God-damned late to come to him asking forgiveness.

“Did they hurt him?” Desmond asked. It was stuck in his head, the idea of William sitting across the _family table_ from the civilized fronts of Federico-the-family-madman and Giovanni calm-cool-collected with connections-to-the-Mob who raised sons that brawled for fun. 

Mama Maria nodded her head.

Claudia was hovering in the space between her Mother and him, indecisive about how much she needed her Mother’s comfort. Ezio was standing by the cabinets with his arms across his chest and his eyes staring at the floor. Altair hadn’t moved from somewhere behind him where he opened the door. 

“Fuck you,” Desmond said when he could think of nothing else. “I _told_ you what he did. I told you! Why wasn’t I enough?”

“I was wrong,” Mama Maria said.

“You were _wrong!_ ,” he screamed. There were tears on his face and a shattering feeling of being out of control that he hated worse than he hated most things. He took a steadying breath and cleared his throat. “I don’t want to be a cause. I don’t want to be a lifetime movie. Admit you were wrong, apologize and keep them away from me. That’s what I want.”

Mama Maria nodded. She moved forward with an abortive, indecisive motion and stopped-started before she crossed the space between them. Her soft feet in pantyhose were silent across the floor. She stopped in front of him for a moment, her face so much older now than it had been when she told him she would not save him from her husband and son. Her hand was aged and soft when it touched his face. “I promise,” she said. 

“You hurt me,” he said since she was there. Since she was crying the way he was crying and it seemed like something he’d thought about telling someone that cared for a long-long time. It wasn’t much and it wouldn’t matter to him tomorrow when he had to talk himself out of bed but it was something that maybe he wouldn’t have to think again-and-again. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. 

“Yeah, you said that.” He shook her hand off his face and looked over his shoulder where Altair was glowering at his own feet. Then he cleared his throat. “So, you know what I want. No press, no pictures, no movie deals. Make this whole stupid thing good somehow. Tell Federico to leave Altair alone.”

“I’ll fight him,” Lucy said, “if he needs a fight.”

Altair snorted and Ezio coughed a laugh. Mama Maria looked scandalized by the very thought of it but Claudia slid up and said, “she could, Mother.” Then Claudia was hugging her arms around her Mother like she’d been dying of want to do it for weeks. Mama Maria kissed Claudia’s forehead with her hand in her long-long hair.

Desmond left while there was a distraction to let him leave. Altair followed him out and stood with him in the frigid air beyond the door. There they were, unsatisfied and unhappy (right back where they started this whole stupid thing). Desmond was trying not to cry and Altair was clenching his teeth hard enough to make the muscle in his jaw flinch. 

“Can we leave now?” Desmond asked.

“Fuck yes,” Altair said. But he grabbed Desmond by the coat sleeve and dragged him over to wrap both his arms around him and squeezed him so tight there was no fighting back the unwanted hiccup of a sob he couldn’t keep in. “Get it out before your girlfriend follows us.”

“Shut up,” Desmond said. He shoved Altair back by the face and wiped his face on the back of his sleeve like a toddler. The door opened in the next minute and Lucy came out and stood in the space to the side of them with her hands in her pockets. “We’re going home.”

“Sounds perfect,” she said. She took Desmond’s hand and Altair’s and dragged them forward, back along the path they’d taken to get there.

\--

Federico-the-First: An apology seems sadly inadequate for the damage I have caused in my ignorance. Despite this, I am truly sorry. I was wrong. #IbelieveDesmondMiles

Malik woke up to a new year and the end of the Auditore family feud (or what seemed like it’s conclusion) but he also woke up to find:

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m in. Expect an excess of pictures. 


	28. Chapter 28

> **The Smartest Auditore**
> 
> Have you left already?
> 
> No. We are leaving tomorrow.
> 
> Good, come over and teach me how to do make up
> 
> Ask Lucy.
> 
> Lucy’s skin is chalk-white milk-colored. Yours is a lot closer to mine.
> 
> True. 
> 
> I still feel like this is something I don’t want to be a part of.
> 
> You’ll do it anyway, it’ll be like when we were kids but I’ll sit still this time.

Claudia didn’t make it to his place until after the sky had gone dark (fair enough this far into winter, that happened early). She was carrying several bags when she came through his door looking sufficiently recovered from the recent ordeal. “Desmond’s not here?”

“He’s in his room,” Altair motioned down the hall to where Desmond was currently _napping_ (this seemed to cover the extended sleeping thing he had been doing since they got home from the family estate two and a half days ago). “Happy birthday. You’re twenty?”

“Twenty one,” Claudia corrected. She turned around to look at him. “So typically this is done in front of a mirror. I know your bathroom is the size of a kid’s bedroom.” They migrated to his bathroom, stopping only long enough for Claudia to make herself look ‘cuter’ since he was going to film the whole affair. 

“You have really pretty eyes,” she said (smack in the middle of her long lesson on how to apply eye shadow to accentuate the natural shape of his eye and right before she started in about eye liner). Claudia was close enough he could see the faint little freckles (three or four of them) that were still visible across the bridge of her nose despite her best attempts at getting rid of them. He could see the scar on her cheek where she’d picked at her first pimple despite her Mother’s warning and the freshly applied layer of her lipstick still perfectly even and shiny. But she tipped her head and narrowed her eyes as she simply stopped moving to look at his eyes intently. “I didn’t notice before—did one of your parents have eyes like this?”

“I don’t know,” Altair said.

“Hm,” Claudia said. Then she pulled back and motioned at him to look in the mirror so he could repeat on his left eye what she’d done on the right. He could see her reflection in the mirror making approving or disapproving faces. A faint smile and nod for when he did well and a sneer for when he didn’t. “So why are you learning how to put make-up on?”

“Because.”

“I’m only asking because I need to know if we’re going to call attention to your cock sucking lips or not.” She was idly picking up and setting down the assortment of lipsticks she’d brought with her. 

“You can’t say that,” Altair said. He stopped applying the eye shadow (which was for the best since he didn’t have nearly the same skill level that Claudia did). “I’m recording this.”

“So edit it out,” Claudia said. “However, I would like to point out that given that your face has long been in the public eye and you’ve taken up doing erotic jeans ads that people are well aware that you have a very attractive mouth.”

Altair just sighed. “We’re downplaying my mouth.”

“It really is an injustice that you were born straight,” Claudia said. Then she went back to actually helping him figure out how to apply make up to his face. By the time she was finished with him, his face (distinctly masculine by his own figuring) had a definite feminine shine to it. He hadn’t shaved before she showed up and that had been a mistake because there was no hiding the bristle of new growth on his cheeks even with foundation. 

“This is too much work,” Altair said. “My face feels strange. My eyes itch. You do this every day?”

“Only when I want to. You’re vain enough that you should understand the appeal of treating your own face like a work of art. I view the addition of make up like restoring a masterpiece. I am merely enhancing the natural perfection that God bestowed upon me.” She smiled when she said it all red lips and white teeth looking haughty and beautiful. 

Altair laughed and Claudia did not slap him but laugh with him.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Before and after picture for you Sass. Me before I learned how to do make up and shaved my legs and me after. I am colder now than I was before. Apparently the hair on my legs was insulation. Now it is gone and I’m chilly all the time. Also rubbing up against things is a new, strange, intense experience. I’m not sure why women shave their legs but I might be tempted to do it again just to rub up against the sides of my couches and feel how soft and enticing they are.
> 
> I would love to go have sex with someone now that I’m 50% less hairy but I feel like I’d have to explain why my legs, chest and arm pits have been shaved. Then I also feel like I made a resolution to sleep around less and going out and finding some woman to have sex with on January 4th might be too early to break my resolution.

Malik just stared at the screen. He was lying in bed (enjoying the nothingness of being home for the last few days he’d be able to enjoy it before he had to go back to college) with Sailor snoozing on his chest and the laptop propped up against his bent legs. The first picture was Altair in his boxer-briefs looking much the same as he had in every other picture of him in just his underwear. The second was Altair with one of his arms up displaying his hairless armpits and hairless legs. From a distance, one couldn’t even tell he’d ever had hair on his chest (but apparently he did at some point). He was standing in his bathroom in both pictures. The important difference being that the second picture featured puddles and towels thrown around the bathroom and a chair that looked as if it belonged in the kitchen and not bathroom.

“I honestly do not know what I was expecting,” Malik said. “He’s really going to do this.” Which left Malik feeling oddly elated and intimidated. Caught between thinking how dumb Altair was (or could be, really) especially when given a challenge and thinking how unworthy he was to be this man’s friends given his ulterior motive for starting this whole bizarre relationship. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> No cheating. I haven’t had sex with anyone yet either. Of course, I’m not exactly a sex symbol so it is probably somewhat simpler for me to abstain. Your sacrifice has not gone unnoticed.
> 
> You didn’t actually have to shave your legs. I assume you’ll be wearing some manner of leggings/tights since you live far enough north that there is snow and bitter cold temperatures. Nobody is going to see your legs. I appreciate that you’re taking this whole thing seriously (I use this word with a dash of irony). What exactly happened to your bathroom though?

Lucy had happened to his bathroom. She had been there to provide pointers about how to shave his legs and that had ended with the two of them in his massive bathtub throwing water at one another like stupid children. Desmond had found them only long enough to sigh over it.

“I just have two questions,” Desmond had said standing in the doorway looking haggard with exhaustion but vibrant with deniable jealousy. “What the hell are you doing,” he put up one finger, “and now that you know he’s got the bigger dick should I be worried you’re leaving me?” He put up the other finger.

Lucy was wearing a bright-blue shirt, soaked through and clinging to her skin (showing how hard her nipples were) and a pair of black underwear that were also wet but also had bubbles clinging to them. She sat on the edge of the bathtub with pink on her face from laughing and kicked her feet idly in the water while Altair tried to look very innocent. “Number one, I am helping him learn how to shave his legs and things devolved. Number two, you can’t be worried I’m leaving you because we are not currently together. But if you had the right to worry about such a thing, you shouldn’t worry.” 

“Why are you shaving your legs?” Desmond asked. He looked down at Altair when he asked it. “No—Don’t tell me.”

“I think it’s a Sass thing,” Lucy said.

Desmond had already turned around to leave. “Of course it’s a Sass thing! Ten years I’ve been trying to the jerk from doing insensitive asshole things and all of a sudden some stranger on the internet can make him shave his legs!”

Lucy was smiling. “You had sex with this person didn’t you?”

“What?” Altair demanded. Then he scoffed. “Sass?” And then nodded. “I don’t know which person she is that I’ve had sex with though. She won’t tell me.” 

Lucy’s smile was awful so Altair scooped up another handful of water to throw at her. She kicked the water back at him and they resumed the water battle they had stopped when Desmond interrupted them.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Do I want to wear heels?
> 
> Only if you want to break your ankles
> 
> You have a tendency to fall over
> 
> Yeah but then I tried them on.
> 
> Ezio and Lucy think my ass looks better.
> 
> Then wear the heels
> 
> How short should my skirt be?
> 
> I don’t trust these people I’m with.
> 
> There is snow. You don’t like being cold.
> 
> You’re going to drag me into this.

Desmond should have just gone with them whenever Altair left to go on the insane shopping trip. He had declined because he didn’t want to get dragged into the mess. Primarily, he just wanted to stay inside and avoid things. He didn’t want to be with Ezio and the cameras that had resumed following him around, didn’t want to deal with the photographers that wanted to catch them doing something or to have to try to force himself to match the energy of his cousins. 

By the time he arrived at the store where the idiots were, they had already cleared out the whole store (one of the many advantages of being rich beyond reason) and were filming Ezio trying to explain the nature of fashion to Altair.

“Ok,” Altair said back. “Who actually knows what a Queen Anne neckline is?”

“I do!” Ezio shouted.

Lucy was laying across the couch they had pulled up to sit on while Altair (wearing a dress that fit him terribly) argued with Ezio. Desmond kicked the back of the couch with his knees so that she looked up at him from where she was playing with her new phone (a gift from Altair who felt that everyone needed a fancy new phone). She pressed the phone to her chest and smiled at him. “Save me from this.”

“You’re a woman, why aren’t you saving him?”

But Ezio had dissolved into angry shouting in Italian that was too fast for Desmond to understand. From the hand movements and the disgusted tone, apparently Altair had enraged their cousin with his giggling objections. 

Desmond sighed. “I’ll get rid of him, then you have to help Altair.” He went over and clapped his hand on Ezio’s shoulder to drag him away from Altair who was far too amused to be offended about the shouting. “Ok,” Desmond said. “Ok.”

“He is stupid!” Ezio shouted.

Altair pulled up the sides of the skirt he was wearing. “Is this a princess dress or an X line? Why does that matter?” 

Desmond turned Ezio around and pushed him toward the door. All of the cameras moved with him like a shuffling mass of bodies. “Go on,” he said. “Go do something interesting. Something that doesn’t involve stupid cousins.”

“Why is he even doing this?” Ezio demanded. He pushed his hair away from his face and glared at Altair with narrow eyes and clear (albeit temporary) hatred. 

“To impress a girl,” Lucy said. She rolled off the couch and onto her feet. “Whenever men do stupid things assume it’s to impress a girl.” After she was on her feet, she went around Ezio to look at the dress Altair was currently wearing. “That is a triangle. Okay, the only asset you have is your ass. The rest of you is completely shapeless.”

“You can go,” Desmond said. He kept pushing until Ezio was close enough to the door that he could escape. “I’m sure you should be headed back to your brother.” There were cameras all around them when Ezio turned around and hugged Desmond with both arms and a tight squeeze that compressed his chest to the point of not being able to breath. Desmond patted him on the back. “Go on.”

“Don’t let your girlfriend put Altair in stupid clothes,” Ezio said. “If it he must embarrass us, he should at least look decent doing it.” Then he let go and summoned the people hired to follow him. 

By the time Desmond got back to Altair he had added a jacket to his shapeless dress. It was a fitted jacket, with double-breasted buttons and just enough room in it to manage his shoulders. The arms were tight and chest which made the voluminous skirt even more noticeable. Altair was doing a slow turn in the mirror. 

“Ok, but mini-skirts. You have great legs and a nice ass,” Lucy said. “You can wear some warm tights and some nice boots.” Then Lucy sat back down. “Go find some. Come back and try them on. Let’s be done with this.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I fully expect that you will publish these photos I send you of me in these clothes I just spent a full day buying. Ezio had a great deal of fun insulting my taste in fashion while I tried on clothes that were obviously not meant to be worn by me. If you don’t put them up in the morning, the paparazzi will inevitably find me first. That’s going to be fun.

Malik had to get ready to go back to school. Kadar was helping him by sitting on the bed stroking Sailor’s tiny back while his traitorous kitten purred happily at the attention. The laptop that he’d been looking (while avoiding the inevitable packing of his belongings) was open for Kadar to peruse through it easily. “You still have that access to my site?”

“Yes,” Kadar said. “I also saved sass-badger for your twitter name when you inevitably gave in and agreed to get one.” He scrolled through Malik’s e-mails as if he had every right the in the world to do so before finally looking up at him. 

“I just won’t be able to post the picture he sends on Tuesday morning early enough to beat the paparazzi to it. So I need you to do it. I’ll already have a template ready so you’ll just need to post the picture.”

“Sure,” Kadar said. “Then I’ll just send you a picture of Sailor every day and clean out his litter box and—”

Malik stopped folding shirts long enough to stare at Kadar who managed not to attempt to look innocent long enough to smile at him. “What do you want?”

“A raise,” Kadar said. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and looked at it with exaggerated sadness. “I mean, this is shameful. If I had a raise I could afford a better phone.”

Malik sighed. “Fine. But you have to post the picture exactly like I do. No altering anything. Just pretend you’re me.”

“Uptight and boring. Got it.” Then Kadar flopped back on his bed and picked Sailor up to rest on his chest. He murmured encouraging things to the kitten about how good life would be when Malik was around.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Why must I be the one to protect the baby from his own terrible idea?
> 
> Because you have a long standing habit of protecting people in women’s clothing?
> 
> Women, Desmond.
> 
> Not people in women’s clothing.
> 
> I protect women.
> 
> Pretend Altair’s a woman and protect him
> 
> I am only doing this because I’m leaving before his birthday.
> 
> Sure, ok
> 
> You should go with him when he goes to Europe this year.
> 
> He hasn’t asked.
> 
> Maybe he just wants to get away from this bullshit too
> 
> He’ll ask. You should go.

Desmond had managed not only to get up, showered and dressed that morning but had gone so far as to walk to the coffee shop and retrieve his favorite drink. Then he’d gone back to his own apartment (sadly neglected by his absence). It was not as well-lit or extravagant as Altair’s place and the difference was only noticeable immediately after returning. In fact, in comparison to the other places he had stayed over the holidays, his own apartment was a dreary hole in the wall with minimal lighting.

There wasn’t a lot in his life that left him feeling dissatisfied (possibly because once he allowed himself to feel such a thing, he’d most likely never stop feeling it) but standing on the raised step by his front door, looking out at the pitiful, mundane grayness of his apartment left him shivering with vague unhappiness. 

Maybe he should go with Altair. Maybe he should find a better place to live. Maybe he should do something with himself more ambitious than existing.

He held onto the feeling, used it to force himself to take care of the things he’d been neglecting. Like dusting and cleaning out the storage closets and vacuuming the couch. When he was finished with that, he sat in the big arm chair and daydreamed about what sort of place he would live in if he could live anywhere.

\--

> ###  _January 6, 2008_ : I received this photograph in the mail
> 
> I’ll just leave it here for everyone to appreciate. Remember that my blog is 100% hate free so while you are encouraged to comment, remember your manners.
> 
> [IMAGE: Altair standing in front of the mirror in his bathroom, looking at the screen of his phone, with one hand hanging at his side. Dress is sleeveless, triangle-cut in a black/blue color. Tights are charcoal-colored.]
> 
> The color is not bad, if somewhat modest and uncertain.
> 
> **Tagged:** _contains images, crossdressing, I: Altair needs attention, photos from the source, you saw it here first folks_

It was not that Malik didn’t think Altair would do it after he said he would but now that he saw the picture, he couldn’t help but wonder why the hell Altair agreed to do it. (And then feel ever so spiteful and unworthy when he realized he abused his power for his own amusement.) Then there was the video:

> [Video starts in the bathroom. Altair is standing, shirtless, in front of the mirror frowning as he rubs his fingers against the stubble on his cheeks.]
> 
> Altair: so this video is just for you, Sass. Don’t go off sending the link to everyone. I hate shaving. I’m not sure that it’s ever mentioned but every year my face gets better at growing hair and every year I have to shave more often and every time I shave I hate it a little more. When this is all over I’m going to grow a beard.
> 
> [Altair starts shaving using an electric razor.]
> 
> Altair: So, I was going to do this whole thing right and wear lady’s underclothes and everything. Then when I went looking for something that would fit in a useful way, I discovered that _shockingly_ women’s underpants aren’t really designed for dicks and testicles. That didn’t work out. So I’m wearing my own underwear. [Steps back from the mirror to motion at his red boxer-briefs.] You’ll have to deduct points or whatever you feel is necessary. Nobody is going to be looking up my skirt so I feel like nobody but you will know the truth. So this should be sufficient. I can’t remember if Lucy told me to get dressed or do my make-up first. The dress doesn’t go over my head so I should be fine doing this first. In theory? We’ll hope. I don’t want to do this twice.
> 
> Altair: [pauses while applying make up to stare at his face.] You ever just stop and realize you have no idea what your face looks like? I mean, I’m vain and I know what I look like. But— My cousin said I have cock sucking lips and great eyes. I was never that impressed with my eyes or my mouth. I think it’s the sum of my whole face that works. Individually, it’s an odd collection of pieces…

Malik might have spent the whole of his life in happy ignorance of what Altair looked like applying lipstick to his (really rather attractive) mouth or watching him shimmy into a dress with a voluminous skirt that fell just above Altair’s knees. He didn’t need the images of watching the jerk check how his own profile or turn around to look at his ass or to watch him sit on the edge of the bathtub slowly rolling the thick winter tights up his hairless legs either.

“This is so stupid,” Malik said to his computer screen and tried very hard to make his dick agree with him. (And failed, ultimately, but he was always going to take a shower.)

\--

> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  FROM: Desmond M. [Shirley.Templar@gmail.com]
> 
> I assume (as I have received no confirmation) that you are the mastermind behind Altair’s sudden decision to wear women’s clothing for a week. I’m not sure what your history is with him or what sort of communication you’ve shared with him. 
> 
> What I do know is that Altair’s loyalty is not easily won and it is absolute. The sort of power you have over him is addictive but try to remember that while you might think this is amusing (or even that it’s a worthwhile lesson in humility) that he does not only have to contend with his personal feelings on being seen in women’s clothes but the elongated discussion of his choices by people who think they have the right to say whatever they want. 
> 
> Be careful, is what I’m saying.

Desmond expected Altair to go do his turn in the public eye wearing the woman’s clothes and then to go back and hide in his apartment in his own clothes. He didn’t expect for Ezio to deliver Altair to his door with a sigh of exasperation and a clear gesture of passing the unwanted baton. 

Altair was pink-cheeked from the cold, unwinding the large red scarf from around his face as he pulled at the oversized buttons on his white coat. The fluttering skirt of his dress swished around his knees as he simultaneously tried to get out of the tall boots (with no success). His face was _pretty_ in a way that seemed impossible. “As it turns out,” he said, “it’s fucking cold in a dress.”

“No shit,” Desmond said.

Altair dropped his outer layer on the back of the couch and then sat down to unzip the boots and peeled them off and dropped them to the side. He stretched his toes inside of the thick tights he was wearing and then crossed his legs on the couch and flipped the skirt over them. “I thought we could play one of your shooting games.”

“Sure,” Desmond said. He retrieved the controllers. “Maybe after that we can barbecue something and build some furniture.”

“Haha,” Altair said. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Summary of day one: went out and had breakfast with Ezio. That went well since he’s relaxed now that he can go home and actually talk to his brother. I’m not exactly sure what it must be like to have a brother that you admire and respect so much that being physically and morally removed from them is that stressful. I mean, I admire and respect my cousin Desmond but it doesn’t seem like the same thing? Do you have a brother or sister?
> 
> It is really God damned cold out there without pants. This is what I’ve discovered. Tights are itchy on my legs. The skirt was hard to deal with when I needed to pee which was annoying. I eventually just started holding the hem in my mouth to keep it out of the way. Got a few weird looks since I’m a man but no comments. Tomorrow they might actually be looking for me. That’ll be less amusing.

Malik read the e-mail before he went to bed and spent far too long trying to work out if he wanted to answer the question about his brother. Kadar was safely asleep in his own room, having exhausted himself complaining about how he had to go to school in the morning. 

In the end he decided to reply to Desmond first. He wrote:

> Thank you for your frankness. Please tell me immediately if you feel that I have crossed a line. At this time, I cannot confirm or deny that I may or may not be behind Altair’s choice to wear female clothing for a week.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmailcom]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I do have a brother. He is a few years younger than me. We were recently separated by our morals and beliefs. In the end we were able to reconcile even if our beliefs are still different. I can’t guess at what it must feel like to be in Ezio’s place as I am the oldest and it is a distinctly different situation to be in. My brother has always relied on and looked up to me to be an example. I was responsible for him when we were children and even when I was furious at him and wished that he would simply cease to exist, I was dangerously protective of him. Not everyone enjoys that sort of relationship. The important thing is to remember that everyone is different and everyone has different expectations and needs. 
> 
> If I haven’t said, I think what you did for you cousin was admirable. It is more difficult that many people realize to admit that your family has done something wrong and even more difficult to stand up against them. I hope that you continue to show support to the men and women that have heard your cry against abuse. By support, I mean more than just monetary donations.
> 
> I also find your comments on women’s clothing to be apt and amusing. Are you going to wear skirts all week?

 

Altair slept in his boxers because he didn’t want to wear a nightgown. In the morning, he laid around reading and rereading the message from Sass, thinking about why the hell he even cared about her opinion. That was the thing that Lucy-was-smiling about and Desmond was confused about and what Ezio couldn’t stop asking him. 

_Why does this girl matter_ , _why would you do this for her_ and Altair had only shrugged and brushed it off. But he didn’t know why the hell it mattered. He couldn’t figure out at what point he stopped thinking Sass was ridiculous and stupid and decided that he wanted her to think of him as something better than a bad joke. It wasn’t even impressing her that he needed to do, but trying to live up to the expectation she had that he be a decent person. 

(Maybe it was exactly what he said it was: that she reminded him of his Grandmother, maybe because when everyone was content to let him be a baby, she had come along with her disapproval and her _I know you can do better_ when he had felt like he was spinning out of control.)

He got out of bed after nine-thirty when the day didn’t seem so overwhelming. His shower was brief and he dried off, sat around until his skin felt completely dry and went through his options for the week. 

\--

> ###  _January 7, 2008_ : Day Two: The skirt has gotten shorter
> 
> [IMAGE: Altair standing in the kitchen, wearing a white mini skirt, light gray oversized sweater with a wide neckline that showed the muscles in his shoulders prominently but fell over his hands toward his knuckles, gray tights and black boots with a short heel]
> 
> Reminder: this blog is 100% hate free. Feel free to discuss gender roles and expectations if that is something you find interesting. Lusting after Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad is also acceptable; attempting to label him as homosexual or ‘weak’ based solely on his ability to wear a skirt is not.
> 
> **Tagged:** _contains images, crossdressing, I: Altair needs attention, photos from the source, you saw it here first folks_  
> 

Altair checked the website while he stood in line at Lucy’s coffee shop ignoring the general hush and whispered disbelief that was happening all around him. He hadn’t buttoned his coat today because it pulled at his shoulders and the sweater he was wearing (and the lacy undershirt that wasn’t visible under it) was warm even without the coat. The skirt had felt short when he was still inside but out in the public it felt almost as if he were entirely naked. He didn’t pull it down or shift on his feet but stood there very noticeably not caring about what people thought.

Desmond was standing next to him looking forward with a neutral bored look on his face. “When are we leaving to go back up to the old house?” he asked. “Are we getting drunk this year?”

Altair tucked his phone into the pocket of his coat (the only pocket he had to tuck anything into which was annoying to the extreme) and shrugged. “I don’t have any special need to get drunk. I want to make lamb kabobs and try to make those potatoes that Grandma made.” 

The line moved forward and the chatter shifted around them. Someone was taking a picture of him and Altair turned to look at them (despite the way Desmond elbowed him like he wasn’t supposed to). The woman had a shell-shocked look at having been caught but Altair smiled at her and spread open the coat so she could get a better shot. “Sorry,” she mumbled even after she saved the photograph.

“You don’t look sorry,” Altair said then turned back to Desmond. The boots gave him a few extra inches of height which he didn’t need since he was already six foot one but then he was taller than Desmond and that was a unique experience that he enjoyed if only because it annoyed Desmond.

“Why are you here?” Lucy asked when they finally made it to the counter. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“Desmond wanted coffee,” Altair said. “I have to go somewhere, so why not here?”

Desmond was ordering his drink and Altair was leaning against the counter watching Lucy make his stupid coffee. Lucy didn’t look at him but said, “I thought you’d go somewhere fancier. Maybe tomorrow you can wear some athletic shoes and we can go running again.”

“Are you working on Friday?”

“Friday, yes. Saturday no.” She handed him the cup since Desmond was talking to the girl at the register still. “Why?”

“I was going to invite you to the family mansion. We go on my birthday and put flowers on Grandma’s grave.” Her face fell like she was expecting something besides that. Her sigh was a little sad but she nodded. 

“Yeah. I’ll go if you’re sure you want me.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Well I tried on a pair of pants but I like my penis and testicles too much to wear them. Skirts allow me all kinds of space which is nice except for the draft. Today I went to a coffee shop and several people took pictures of me. Nobody asked me why I was dressed in woman’s clothing which is good because I haven’t figured out an answer for that. 
> 
> Ezio and Desmond were both protective over me when I was younger but I think that was more to do with outside influences and the generally accepted belief that I’m the baby and incapable of doing things for myself. 
> 
> I’d like you to get a twitter when this is all over. It’ll be like a birthday present.

Malik had only enough time to check his mail and pet Sailor one more time before he had to leave to get to the bus station on time. There wasn’t enough time for him to reply to the E-mail and there was no way to give Kadar last-minute directions in front of their mother. 

Instead it was his Mother with her arms around him rubbing his back and Malik hugging her back thinking that he really did miss her when he didn’t have her around. Kadar was half-asleep (in the middle of the night) so he shuffled up and hugged Malik with one awkward arm slung over his shoulders and a slap on his back to add punctuation.

“Send me pictures of Sailor,” Malik said.

“I’ll send you pictures of the cat,” Kadar promised. Then he pulled back and shooed Malik away.

\--

> ###  _January 8, 2008_ : Day Three, now with running shoes 
> 
> [IMAGE: Altair standing in front of an apartment building wearing a red dress with a full skirt to his knees, white tights and bright blue running shoes.]
> 
> This is not the best look for him, we can all agree on that. However, remember to keep your comments civil. Anyone caught spreading pointless hate will have their comments frozen and fed to the cat.
> 
> **Tagged:** _contains images, crossdressing, I: Altair needs attention, photos from the source, you saw it here first folks_

Kadar took absolute pleasure in watching Altair wearing lady clothes. It was every bit as awkward and embarrassing as he thought it would be. Whoever had been in charge of making sure he didn’t look terrible had managed to find enough dresses that fit the incorrect shape of his body well enough that he still looked tall and slim and fit despite the excess of material in his skirt. Someone (maybe even Altair himself since the little peacock seemed vain enough to bother) must have decided to show off his legs by keeping him in short skirts because his dresses and skirts seemed to like they weren’t going to drop below his knees any time soon. No they were downright flirtatious in their length. 

While Kadar figured Altair would go a day in a skirt and call it a raging success, he had to give the guy credit for not only agreeing to do it but actually following through so completely. When he wasn’t giggling insanely at the various pictures of Altair walking around New York in a dress wearing boots with heels, he thought the idiot was alright.

\--

son-of-no-one: RT “@twosdaylove, great! Now not only is this life-ruiner good looking, wealthy and chivalrous he also looks better in a skirt than me,” I’m not sure what I did to ruin your life but I doubt I look better in a skirt than you. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @lordturtlector, actually I wore the shoes because I was running in the park. I find that having shoes appropriate to my activities make the most sense. (1h ago)

BestofThree: Your make up is almost flawless. It really brings out the natural length of your eyelashes and your amazing mouth. (20m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, well I learned from the best. (15m ago)

Desmond could outrun both of them if not with speed than with endurance. While Lucy and Altair spent all their time trying to get there the fastest, Desmond paced himself and did long-wide circles around them long after they’d collapsed on the bench with sweat pouring down their faces.

Lucy was wearing her work-clothes and her running-shoes, picking at the seam of his skirt. “You’re crazy to do this,” she said.

“It’s supposed to help me figure out why women dress the way they do and what the most appropriate reaction to seeing an attractive woman in attractive clothing,” he said. “Nobody’s flirted with me yet so apparently I’m an ugly woman.”

“It helps that you’re not a woman,” Lucy said. “Where is this jerk? I’m hungry.”

“I think he’s there,” Altair said. He pointed down the trail where Desmond had disappeared to ‘do one more lap, guys’. While it was great that Desmond was participating in life again, it wasn’t great to be stuck outside in January freezing to death. “Are you going to take him home? If you are, I think I’ll go home myself.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Are you in the city? I need a ride from the bus depot
> 
> Do I get a blow job out of this?
> 
> I am too tired to lecture you about this question
> 
> I will come get you. I’d just also like to have a blow job.
> 
> I’m just trying to figure out the odds before I get there.
> 
> I haven’t gotten laid since Thanksgiving.
> 
> Have you gotten ugly?
> 
> I don’t think so. I decided to stop sleeping around
> 
> This doesn’t apply to me. I preceded it.
> 
> I am a fan of loopholes

Leonardo had an apartment (not a dorm) and Malik was too tired to care about where he fell asleep or about the fact that he hadn’t followed through on his implied promise to perform fellatio. Instead he curled up on the couch (that clearly came as part of the pre-furnished apartment) and fell asleep. By the time he woke up it was late afternoon and his phone was overwhelmed with messages from his brother telling him all about how people were commenting with fashion advice on the blog and how he had started freezing potentially stupid/hateful comment threads and responding with a picture of Sailor biting a sheet of blank paper.

Malik might have tried to explain that cat pictures weren’t the way to combat hate but he was still too hungover from hours on a bus to care. Instead he got up, found food and then found Leonardo in his room reading with his head hanging off the bed and his feet against the wall. “Still want that blow job?”

“Yes,” Leonardo said. 

After that they sat around doing a lot of nothing, watching nonsense TV until it got dark and Leonardo made them something to eat. Malik was content to be well-fed and lazy, not thinking about how he really needed to get back to his dorm and make sure he was prepared for classes to start again the next week. 

The TV played a commercial for Ezio’s stupid show that was premiering (later that night, even) and Leonardo stopped reading long enough to watch it. “You know, I’m part Italian myself,” Leonardo said.

“Sure,” Malik said.

“I wouldn’t mind having a little more Italian in me though,” Leonardo said. It was so casual and so deliberate that it took Malik a full minute to realize what was just said and by the time he’d realized and processed it, the commercial was over and Leonardo had resumed reading.

“What?” Malik demanded.

“Hm?” Leonardo murmured from behind the book, “I was just saying that I’d ride him until he begged for mercy—assuming I ever got the chance.” 

Which was fairly disturbing and uncomfortably close to something that Malik didn’t ever want to come up in casual conversation ever again. He scoffed loudly at the assertion. “I can’t believe you like the star of some reality TV trash.” Then he disappeared behind the screen of his laptop, looking at the small window that held the pictures of Altair in woman’s clothing. He was a hypocrite and he didn’t like the notion of it but he liked it a lot better than Leonardo knowing the truth.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> A tutu. 
> 
> I watched Ezio’s show tonight. It’s not a terribly interesting choice that they chose to set it up to deal with the family feud but it doesn’t seem like the wisest choice considering everyone already knows how that feud ended. The preview for next week’s episode where you slap him will probably draw a considerable crowd. I remain amazed you escaped that in one piece.
> 
> _Altair wrote_  
>  I’m taking suggestions about what to wear tomorrow. I’ve got another skirt but I feel like that’s all I’ve done. So give me something to wear and I’ll try to wear it. 

Malik did not expect Altair to go find a tutu and wear it but the picture came on Wednesday morning (delayed longer than the others) of the unbelievable jerk wearing a black tutu over white tights and a ridiculous smile on his face. He was wearing a white skin-tight shirt that had the words ‘I love dance’ in a cursive scrawl across it. And the smile on his face was so utterly proud that one might have thought he was actually excited about the stupid outfit.

Photos from later in the day proved that he’d switched the tutu for an actual skirt before going out in public, but he sent Malik four more pictures before the end of the day of him sitting in Desmond’s living room playing video games, coming out of the bathroom, eating pizza out of the box and doing handstands in the hallway—all pictures with the tutu on. 

Possibly because he was ridiculous. Possibly because he wanted Malik to find him charming. (And god damn everything in the whole entire world because there was no way not to find the asshole charming in the end.)

\--

son-of-no-one: I couldn’t take the tights another day. But I went outside to stand on the sidewalk so it counts. (5h ago)

Shirley-templar: I believe the internet demands pictures. (5h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “@son-of-none-lover, found this picture of Altair wearing a skirt, what did I miss?” look it happened. (3m ago)

The week was almost over and that was for the best because Altair was going to have to shave his legs again if this whole thing went on much longer. As it stood he just laid on his bed and read most of the day.

\--

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, since it’s your birthday tomorrow, here I am as promised. (1d ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger, does this mean I can stop wearing the skirts? (1d ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, sure. Don’t say that I never did anything for you. (1d ago)

Son-of-no-one: If you haven’t figured it out yet. This week’s wardrobe was in response to a bet from Sass who said I couldn’t do it. (24m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, I honestly didn’t think you’d take it so far. I expected you to wear a skirt over your jeans. (21m ago)

Coffeeforcollege: @sass-badger, Ha! I knew it! @EzioAuditore and @bestofthree, pay up. You lost. (20m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @coffeeforcollege, what the hell did you bet on? (18m ago)

Bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, why you agreed to the bet. I can’t believe I lost. (14m ago)

EzioAuditore: hello @Sass-Badger, it is nice to meet you after so long. (13m ago)

Sass-Badger: @EzioAuditore, you as well. Caught the first episode of your show. It looks like it’ll do well. (2m ago)

Desmond was making pork chops because Lucy wouldn’t eat lamb. Altair was making the kabobs (finally looking normal without make up and wearing his usual jeans). Lucy was trying to figure out the scalloped potatoes recipe. She huffed a sigh.

“You Grandmother was a genius and I have no idea what most of this stuff means. I guarantee nothing about these potatoes.” She put the pan into the oven and picked one of the slices of pepper out of the bowl next to where Altair was finishing up the kabobs. “Question,” she said while she was chewing on it, “why do you go to your Grandmother’s grave on your birthday? That seem a little morbid.”

“More morbid than getting the day she died on your wrist?” Desmond asked.

“Equally morbid, maybe?” Lucy said.

Altair shrugged. “Grandma said that birthdays were supposed to be spent with people that you love. It didn’t matter what was happening, it didn’t matter how busy she was, she was always there for me on my birthday. So, I go see her.”

“That’s actually really sweet,” Lucy said. “She sounds like an amazing woman. I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to meet her. What would she have thought of you doing this bet?”

Altair burst into laughter that was more stress than amusement. He wiped his fingers on the sides of his pants and turned to look at her. There were pink spots on his cheeks when he said, “I think she would have told me not to wear such short skirts. She might have told me if I was going to go through so much trouble I should have gotten more in return.” 

“I’m with her there,” Lucy said. “Why did you do all this just to get Sass to get a twitter?”

Altair shrugged. “Because I wanted her to have one.” And Lucy sighed. Desmond rolled his eyes at the stupidity of that. Whoever this girl was, wherever in the world she was, she had more sway over Altair than anyone in his immediate life. “Oh shut up. I like talking to her.”

“I said nothing!” Lucy objected. They trailed off into bickering while Desmond ignored them as best he could.


	29. Chapter 29

> **Malik**
> 
> You can stop using cat macros to freeze comment threads now.
> 
> I have been back in control of the blog for several days now.
> 
> And all you did was post the video that Altair did that summarized #skirtweek
> 
> You didn’t even criticize him for being a misogynist
> 
> Your assistance has been appreciated.
> 
> I also added the tag badgercat because your subscribers like Sailor
> 
> I know.
> 
> I also made Sailor your icon
> 
> I am aware.
> 
> You’re welcome.
> 
> Yes, thank you.
> 
> I’m going to keep freezing the comment threads
> 
> Fine.
> 
> Do what you must.

The truth was, Kadar was very good at taking pictures of Sailor. It helped that the kitten was small, adorable and relatively easy to provoke into taking good pictures. He managed to get the photograph of him biting the paper by dangling it over his head repeatedly and then letting him catch it. The picture he sent to Malik (that day) was of the kitten sleeping on Malik’s bed in a spot that had clearly become the kitten’s favorite spot. The obvious dimple from his tiny body repeatedly coming to rest there was outlined by the tiny white hairs that the kitten shed in his sleep.

When he needed a picture to indicate a second warning (after freezing a comment thread wasn’t enough to deter a hater) he aggravated Sailor by pushing on his tiny nose until the cat hissed at him and swatted at the camera. 

\--

son-of-no-one: here’s hoping I don’t “accidentally” run into some of the ladies I met in Europe last year (5h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “destinysstepchild, @son-of-no-one, like you would even remember them if you saw them”, I would. Why wouldn’t I? (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “apologuisepleasestop, @son-of-no-one, I think she meant remember by any means besides their vaginas”, that’s crude. I also remember women by their breasts, (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: legs, faces and names. This seems to be shocking to some of you. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, why is it a surprise to so many people that I remember the women I’ve had sex with? Is there sex-based amnesia I’m not aware of? (3h ago)

Coffee4college: @son-of-no-one, I cannot wait for this answer. (3h ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, I did not get a twitter to explain basic human concepts to you. The many who have expressed disbelief do so because it’s ingrained in our subconscious. (2h ago)

Sass-Badger: Men and women engage in casual sex, the woman remembers but the man forgets or denies it ever happened. If you’ve ever watched TV or movies you should know this plotline (2h ago)

Sass-Badger: of course, it could also be because you have had sex with an unusually large number of women. (2h ago)

Sass-Badger: Might be because you act like you don’t remember almost as soon as the act is through. (2h ago)

Sass-Badger: Might be because, despite what your actual beliefs about sex and your actual ability to remember things, you present yourself as a thoughtless dickhead. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: Well, that’s bullshit. I remember the women I sleep with. (2h ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, every single one of them? (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger, how would I know if I forgot one? Yes, as far as I know I remember all of them. Name, approximate time of year and place. (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: Well, we clearly have to test that theory. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger, sure. All the ladies who claim to have had sex with me can send you their stories and I’ll tell you their names if I actually had sex with them. (25m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger, but I’m getting on a flight now. (24m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, @sass-badger, this is a terrible idea. (24m ago)

Altair sighed at Desmond as he turned his phone off and slid it into his pocket. “You cannot go with me if you’re going to try to ruin all my fun.”

“Oh I’m sorry. Feel free to continue taunting the general public with the details of your sex life,” Desmond said. They were interrupted in the middle of the conversation long enough to find their seats. That took an extra five-or-six minutes while Desmond worked through his fascination with first class. He was leaning over toward Altair stage-whispering, “this is how you travel all the time?”

“I’m rich,” Altair said back. “I don’t think I’ve ever even seen coach.” But more importantly, “what is so sacred about my sex life? Do you think the women I’ve had sex with aren’t going to send in stories? You think women I haven’t aren’t going to send their stories in? I have no privacy.”

Desmond sighed. “I’m aware.”

“No, you think you are aware. You do not have sex and you are not famous.” Altair smiled while Desmond frowned at him in a way that informed him that there was nothing amusing about his statement. “Fine. But I’m still going to do this. Everyone already knows I sleep around. Now they can also know that I remember who I sleep with.”

“Fine,” Desmond said.

“Fine,” Altair said. He settled into his own seat.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Before I go through the trouble of setting up an entry form and having to slog through an exaggerated number of sex stories featuring you as a wild stud, a poor athlete or an inconsiderate jerk I would just like to be sure that you’re certain this is something you want to do. I only advise caution because it seems like it’ll open you (possibly both of us) up to a wide variety of criticism.

Malik had only barely survived being back at school. His first week of classes (no more arduous or boring, in turn, than any before them) had attempted to smother them with their mundane and overzealous attitudes toward learning and his deep need for education. It didn’t often occur to him to wonder if he’d chosen the wrong path in life but sitting in ‘Europe in the Twentieth Century’ and listening to the general consensus that _this_ was the only history anyone need ever learn left him feeling particularly brittle.

That feeling (and an uncharacteristically nice Friday afternoon) drove him away from campus toward the small bookstore. He skipped the fiction sections (where he usually spent his time) and went looking through the non-fiction section for something that might accidentally interest him. He was one-third through searching between memoirs and biographies when Sofia (the woman who seemed to spend more time at the bookstore than he did) crept up to stand politely to the side and wait to be noticed. 

“Did you have a nice holiday?” she asked him.

Malik shoved another book back onto the shelf and flipped over the next one on the stack he was holding balanced on his arm. “Uh,” he said mostly to the book and not nearly enough to her, “I did not have a holiday but I enjoyed my free time. What about you?”

“Family,” she said simply. “Are you Muslim? Is that why you don’t look at me?”

Not exactly. To a certain degree, his Mother had drilled the idea that he shouldn’t look at women’s faces or bodies for too long (lest he be tempted by them, which in the end was a worthless bit of worry for all involved) but more than that, Malik just didn’t know what she wanted from him. He turned to look at her more fully. “No,” he said, “I’m not. I was raised to be but I’m not. It’s nothing personal.”

“I found some books I thought you’d like,” she said. She dug into the bag hanging at her hip and pulled out three tattered paperbacks with yellowed pages. When she held them out toward him she said, “I already paid for them and everything. Maybe, if you have time, you could read them and tell me if I was right or wrong.”

Malik took the books with caution. “I’m gay,” he said. Just in case that was relevant before they got started. 

Sofia laughed at him. “It’s okay. I’m not interested. It’s just that I’ve been coming to this bookstore since I was a kid and every time I find someone that I think really understands what’s unique and wonderful about novels—I just want to talk to them and see how they think and what really connects with them as a person.” 

“Oh,” well that wasn’t such a bad thought. Malik tucked the books into his own bag. “I’ll read them,” he said, “tell you if you were right or wrong. Then it’s my turn?”

Sofia smiled and nodded. “That sounds perfect.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> It is truly touching that you care enough to ask. I’m serious. It doesn’t bother me that I’ve had sex with as many people as I have. While my liberal attitude will not sit well with many people, it’s hardly a shock. Although I might be surprised that you aren’t frowning over my sex life more than you are. If yours is comparable in some way, I figured you would join in the general air of disapproval.
> 
> There needs to be some sort of method of keeping the people who send in their stories from changing their names/facts after you post them for me to read. I only say this because inevitably women will decide they would rather try to embarrass me than admit that I’m right.
> 
> Sent you a picture of Arundel castle because it’s actually quite nice to look at. Had a chance to see it today since I had go see my Nan. That took a bit longer than I thought it would. Probably a bad idea to do it the day after I arrived. I’m going back to my hotel to take a bath and sleep.

Travel was an integral part of Altair’s entire life. His first plane ride had occurred when he was less than a month old and he had travelled by just about every method imaginable in the time since that first memorable trip. Grandma had a problem with sitting still and a worldwide empire to manage. It was an annoying (but hardly noteworthy) inconvenience to find himself on a train less than a full thirteen hours since he’d gotten off a plane. He brought his phone and his MP3 player and planned to listen to music and enjoy the passing landscape.

Then there was Desmond who had to be all but physically pulled from his bed, pushed through breakfast and dressed like an angry toddler protesting all the way. Now that they were on the train, Desmond was frowning about everything from his own clothes (he had dressed himself in the end) to the seats to the sound of the other passengers. He looked at his phone screen and groaned all over again. “This woman we’re going to see—”

“Nan,” Altair said. “Her actual name is Marion Walker.”

“Ok, yeah. Marion Walker—she does actually know who you are and is okay with you visiting, right? There’s not going to be a scene?”

Altair stared at Desmond and the man couldn’t even feign embarrassment at having to ask such a question. So Altair sighed. “Yes, Nan is aware of who I am. I visited her every year when Grandma came to London. It was the longest and most painful six hours of my life every year. I also wrote her letters on major holidays and sent her a birthday card every year.” 

“I’m assuming that since I have no idea who this woman is that you simply stopped being involved whenever Grandma died.” 

Not exactly. “I still sent her letters.”

“Does she know that we’re coming?” Desmond asked. He seemed to have deflated into the seat next to Altair. All his bones turning to mush under his skin so he was settled so completely in place that it seemed inhuman. Poor guy had obviously never dealt with jetlag in his entire life.

“Yes,” Altair said. “I called her a week ago and asked if I could stop by while I was in London.”

“Great,” Desmond said just seconds before he was asleep. Altair let him sleep and listened to his music as he had intended to do. The music kept him occupied so he didn’t have time to think about the sanitized strangeness of his other-grandmother who he had never-really-known and how that fit oh-so-perfectly with the relationship he had with his Mother. 

Truth was, most of the time, Altair didn’t think about his Mother. He never knew her and had rarely ever had the occasion to feel a great lacking for not having that chance. What little he did know about her was summed up in her decision to take the money she was offered and travel the world as far as she could manage. He knew she had a weak heart. He knew that she died because she decided to have a baby. Grandmother-and-Father had told him time-and-time again that his Mother had wanted nothing in this world so much as she wanted him and he should never-ever waste his time worrying about how she’d given her life just-for-his. Nobody had ever told Altair to make his life worth the loss of his Mother’s. 

Then there was Nan who lived in a house where his Mother had lived, who remembered all the living details of the woman that Altair had never even met. He remembered sitting with her around the table in her cramped dining room wondering if his Mother had sounded just-like-Nan and how strange it was that he had failed to pick up anything worthwhile from either of his parents’ (very different) accents. He was half-British and half-Syrian and all-American every time he opened his big mouth. It seemed like the sort of thing that would drive someone crazy.

When the train arrived, Altair poked and prodded Desmond back to full wakefulness.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> Just met Altair’s other grandma
> 
> Oh, how was that?
> 
> Why are you awake?
> 
> I couldn’t sleep. What’s his grandma like? 
> 
> Tiny. She is like four foot seven. He’s a giant next to her
> 
> She’s very quiet.
> 
> But she seems nice
> 
> Quiet and short. 
> 
> What was his Dad like? Hopefully tall and loud?
> 
> I remember Umar being tall. He wasn’t loud though.
> 
> Altair’s personality is all Grandma.
> 
> Send me a picture of his Mom. I’m curious. I’ve never seen her or his Father.
> 
> Sure.

There hadn’t been a preconceived notion of what Altair’s Nan must have looked like (something generic about white haired old ladies drinking tea, perhaps) but he hadn’t been prepared to be greeted by the tiny woman that opened the door and invited them inside. She had looked up at Altair with an expression that could have been impressed or uncertain but she did not put voice to either.

They exchanged introductions, (this is Desmond, my cousin. Desmond, this is Nan) and then adjourned to the sitting room where the small table nestled comfortably in the center of many chairs was stacked with boxes and photo albums. 

“These are all pictures of her?” Altair said when he saw them. He sat in the chair that Nan motioned to while she picked up an album and then a box. 

“You weren’t specific,” Nan said. She held the box and the album but offered neither to Altair. “What are you looking for?”

Desmond sat in the seat left for him and tried not to look conspicuous or overly interested. He hadn’t been included in Altair’s decision to drop in on his Nan or the reasoning for it. As far as he knew, there was no reason to go see her at all. 

“I just don’t have pictures of her,” Altair said softly. “I don’t really know anything about her. I mean—My Dad told me some things but not a lot. Grandma didn’t really know her. I just want to know if I look like her or if—just stuff,” he said.

Nan set both of her burdens back on the table and stood in front of Altair. She looked at him critically and then took his face in both of her hands and looked at him for long enough that Desmond started to feel a bit uncomfortable. “There is not much of her in your face,” she said. When that obviously disappointed Altair to hear Nan put one of her hands across the bottom of his face. “Maybe the shape of her eyes. She had her Father’s eyes.” 

That explained why Desmond ended up looking so much like Altair who (by all rights) should not have looked anything at all like him. They were both blessed with Grandpa’s smooth womanizer (subjectively) good looks. “Did she have eyes that color?” Desmond asked.

“Oh no,” Nan said. “Her eyes were much darker. I do not think I’ve seen eyes like Altair’s before.” Then she turned away and picked up one of the albums off the bottom of the pile and held it out to Altair. “Start here.” 

So he did. Desmond took an album if only because it was offered to him and it seemed rude to refuse. Then he sat in awkward observance of the two-strangers-and-still-family members that looked at their own albums full of pictures and said very little to one another about anything. After a while he stopped leafing through the many pages of photographs of Altair’s sweet-faced Mother and watched Nan. He tried to work out how she had found herself a target of Grandfather’s attentions. It was a well-documented fact (just look at the women who had his children) that he was attracted to very beautiful women who were easily convinced out of their clothes. He also particularly liked married women. 

Nan was plain looking with no obvious signs of having been married. She was quiet and small (even smaller in personality than in physical size) and yet somehow she had caught the eye of Grandpa. (But then, Desmond sat there feeling like an asshole for thinking she wasn’t pretty enough to be seduced by Grandpa and really-really wanted to leave.)

Later, after what felt like an eternity, Altair said, “she had a tattoo?”

“Yes. There is a good picture of it if you turn a few more pages.” Nan got up and stood next to Altair as he obediently turned pages. When he reached the right one she pointed at it and nodded. “Yes, Maud was very proud of it. She designed it herself.”

“Can I have this picture?” Altair asked.

It was evident from the expression on Nan’s face that she didn’t want to give the photograph but she nodded after a moment. “Yes, of course. Take a few.”

“Thank you,” Altair said. He peeled the photograph he wanted out from under the protective plastic and stared at it for a moment before setting it to the side and flipping back a few pages to take another. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> So now you’re accepting sex stories?
> 
> Were you going to submit your own?
> 
> Oh yeah. Met at prom, got a pizza, had sex. By the way I’m a guy.
> 
> I’d love to watch him deny that.
> 
> You are going to have to address the homophobia eventually
> 
> Yes but not yet.
> 
> Fine. This is still a bad idea.

The thing was, Kadar was trying to be a better person. He’d taken up reading for fun (which wasn’t all together that fun), he had started having conversations with his Mother about religion and life and other useful things (conversations he’d previously only had with Malik, really) and even started searching for a part-time job.

His weakness (as understandable as it was) remained firmly rooted in sex. While he wanted to be strong enough to resist jerking off to the sex story that Malik had posted on his website (still awaiting verification from Altair) the fact was that Kadar not only got aroused by it but proceeded to jerk off regardless of the fact that it involved Altair. 

Then he had to try to sort out if he cared about how vaguely weird that was. 

\--

> ###  _January 19, 2008_ : Sexy Saturdays 001: a tame beginning
> 
> We met outside of a bar that I was trying to get into while Altair was leaving. He saw me standing there with a few of my friends and asked me if I knew where he could get a good sandwich that time of night. I thought I spoke pretty good English until I tried to explain to him where to go and he looked really confused. My friends were trying to help me explain it and he just kept looking confused.
> 
> After a minute or so of that, he asked me if I knew where to get a sandwich in my native language and I was able to tell him where to go. I asked him how he learned to speak so well in my language and we started talking about different languages and I challenged him to speak in other languages. Then he invited me to go get a sandwich with him and we ended up at his hotel room. 
> 
> I was really into him even before he asked if he could perform oral sex on me and even more after I told him he could but I didn’t want to do the same for him. He didn’t pressure me about it at all but got on his knees in front of the couch and didn’t stop until I couldn’t take it anymore. I was feeling too sensitive to want sex so I gave him a hand job. Afterward, we laid around making out for a while. 
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays, W: contains sexual content, W: Crude Language_
> 
> • **son-of-no-one:**  
>  It was early spring, Germany, her name was Inga. She had brown hair, brown eyes and a pretty smile. Her English is impressively good now.  
> 
> 
> • **Sass Badger [moderator]:**  
>  Technically, she said 'April' but its correct. 

Altair just wanted a drink and Desmond just needed a nap. The two of them were a sorry sight at the end of a long day, barely making the dress code that allowed them access to the bar attached to the hotel. (The whole idea of a dress code offended him, rather than offer him some kind of comfort. Altair was rolling in money and therefore should be able to wear jeans and the overpriced T-shirts wherever he wanted to go. He didn’t need a nice shirt, ‘casual smart’ look about him to prove his status.)

The bar itself was high-gloss, bright lights and glass tops that was offensive to the whole notion of slumming it at a bar looking for a little bit of alcohol to take the edge off the feeling of unsatisfied curiosity. The sensation that he’d somehow failed his Nan followed him like a bad smell every time he left her house. The rose-scented blandness of her home lingered with him so consistently that his Grandmother had taken to buying him ice cream and taking him back to the hotel to read books for the remainder of the day after they visited Nan. 

But it was _important_ (Grandmother said) because Nan was _alone_ and Altair was the last piece of her daughter in the whole world. That didn’t help when they were strangers. Altair sighed and Desmond looked up at him with that dizzy-level of exhaustion making his eyes look swollen and his shoulders sag. 

“Is it always like that?” Desmond asked.

“Yeah,” Altair said. His drink arrived and he thanked the nice bartender before he took a drink. 

Desmond was turning his water and trying to think of something worthwhile and nonjudgmental to say. He was on the verge of digging something up from the bottom of his belly when his attempts were interrupted by the scratch of nails across Altair’s shoulders. The sudden presence of a body against his back and the syrupy-sweet-voice of a woman that Altair had never suffered through meeting twice. 

“Hello,” Maria Thorpe said when she leaned forward across his body. Her nails were viciously red and her smile was so obviously fake that Altair couldn’t stop himself from the reflexive mirror crossing his own. The scent of her fuck-me-perfume was overwhelming so close to his face the way her low-cut top offered him a peripheral view of her breasts.

“What the hell?” Altair said. 

Maria put herself physically between him and Desmond, slid her body all up along his like they were friends (or fucking, whichever) as she laughed at his question in a way that showed all her gleaming-white-teeth. Her skirt was flirtatiously short, swishing around her thighs as she arched her body in such a way as to be obviously attractive to him. “I thought you’d never get here,” she said.

“What’s happening?” Desmond asked from the other side of Maria. He didn’t smile at her because obvious displays of dishonesty annoyed him. “What did I miss?”

Altair looked over his shoulder, through the wide-wide-window and then at the row of tables where other patrons were sitting, minding their own business. There was one-maybe-two that were looking at her (not him) with too-much interest. Out on the street there was a man with a camera squinting into the glare like he could see through the window itself. Then Altair sighed over his drink with the huge smile on his face as he slid up to his feet, one hand resting on her waist and a smile stuck on his face. They were close-like-conspirators when he whispered, “you need out of the hotel or into a room?”

Maria cocked her head with her hands resting on his arms and her body pressed back against his in a pleasing way. “Room,” she said.

Then he put his arm around her waist and pulled her toward the exit. “See you later, Desmond,” Altair said. Maria picked up a conversation they weren’t having so they were all over one another in the lobby on their way to his room. But the elevator was empty and she pushed him away like he was burning her skin. 

“Fuck,” she snapped as soon as the doors were closed and they were alone. 

“That’s what everyone is going to think,” he said. He pulled his phone out to tell Desmond that it was all a farce. It was hard to explain why he bothered helping Maria when she was one of the angriest people he had ever met. (Perhaps because Mama Maria liked her, perhaps because Grandma had always told him that you had to protect your own kind or maybe simply because refusing her would have made a scene that would have been far worse.) “Not so bad for my reputation but I’m not certain it will do anything for yours.”

Maria laughed at that notion. “I’ve had worse rumors than you, boy.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you have. You can stay in my room for a while and then leave.” 

They were quiet in the hallway and silent when they got into his room. Maria looked out the windows, down at the street with a wistful sigh. “Don’t you want to know why?”

“Nope,” Altair said. He took his shirt(s) off and dropped the photographs on the table in the center of the living area with the cream-colored couches he was afraid of sitting on. They spread out across the surface, each of them showing his Mother in a variety of details. They were pictures of a stranger, someone as removed from him as Nan, someone he kept trying to feel some connection to and failed time-and-time again. 

Maria moved away from the window and came to sit on one of the couches. She picked up one of them with her fingertips and careful-careful touches. “She looks like you,” Maria said. “You do not have a sister and so far as I know, your family is predominantly men. It is only Claudia, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” Altair said. 

“Mother?”

“Yeah.” He didn’t sit but stand there half dressed, feeling conspicuously out of place in his own hotel room. Maria turned her head when she looked at the picture and then up at him. “Her name was Maud.”

Maria picked up another photograph—the one that showed his Mother’s (actually pretty big) tattoo all freshly inked and still pink. “Her tattoo is better than yours,” Maria said. Then she dropped the photograph back on the table. Her fingers slid into her long-dark hair and she leaned her head forward so her hair covered her pale face for a moment. Then she sighed again. “Thank you,” she offered when she forced herself to look up again.

Altair shrugged, picked up the picture of his Mother’s tattoo on the back of her shoulder—it was a nautical compass, designed to look faded and incomplete here-and-there with north set off-center, pointing toward her shoulder. In the innermost circle there was a globe and on the very outside, outside of the points were the words “ad astra per aspera”. The thing he had always been told about his Mother was that she had wanted to see the whole world before she died. Whether or not she knew how short her time on the planet would be was a mystery but her determination to _go_ and _see_ had been the only way he could define her for most of his life. 

“Was that your cousin Desmond in the bar?”

“Huh?” Altair said. He dropped the picture again, rubbed his neck because he was suddenly exhausted. “Yeah. I’m going to take a bath. Do whatever.”

“Sure,” she said. 

\--

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, is that your cat that has slowly started taking over your website? (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, yes he is. (8m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, he is very white and fluffy. (4m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, I’m getting a new tattoo. I will refrain from challenging you to figure out why I chose this one. (3m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, planning on expanding your grocery list? (2m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @Sass-Badger, don’t give him ideas. (1m ago)

But then there was the e-mail in Malik’s inbox that said:

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I fundamentally hate ‘pretending’ but it’s an integral part of my life. For instance, yesterday I ‘pretended’ to be interested in (possibly have sex with) Maria Thorpe. I do not know if you are into movies but she’s one of those rising star deals. Objectively, she is very pretty but she’s also a bitch so I do not recommend idolizing her. I’m sure you’ll be hearing about that if you frequent a gossip website.
> 
> In more important news, Nan is my Mother’s mom. I was feeling nostalgic so I went to see her. I wanted some photographs of my Mother and I found out that she had a tattoo. It’s a nice one. I sent a picture of the picture (the quality is somewhat lacking). Nan doesn’t think I look like her. Maria Thorpe says I do. I think I look more like Desmond than I do Nan. (I would send you a picture of him but he does not want his face published anywhere.)
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  I can only guess that Nan is what you call your maternal Grandma. I hope the visit was nice. The picture you sent me of Arundel castle was very nice, thank you. 
> 
> My objection to your sex life is not the quantity of partners that you’ve had but your dismissive treatment of them. Rather than be honest and up front about your intentions and dealing with their expectations head-on, your act like an ass to get rid of them. And perhaps I find your attitude annoying. I fully realize that you will never suffer a shortage of willing partners but if you could at least pretend to not flaunt your inevitable conquests, I would probably find your attitude toward sex much less obnoxious. At the same time I criticize you for this, I have found myself just assuming that should I want sex it will be available to me. I never fear that I won’t have a willing volunteer. So, perhaps my annoyance is hypocritical. 
> 
> Still, pretend to be humble sometimes.

The tattoo was actually pretty nice. Altair’s Mother was a pretty-enough looking woman. It was hard to tell when it was only her in the photo standing next to a table showing off her new tattoo but she seemed like she was a very petite woman. While Altair’s skin was not as dark as Malik’s, it was significantly darker than his Mother’s. The shape of his eyes and nose seemed to have come from his Mother but he certain hadn’t gotten much else from her. Malik considered all that before setting the laptop aside in favor of finishing the books he’d been steadily working his way through since he’d gotten back from the shop.

Malik tried not to care but he couldn’t shake Altair’s stupid e-mail out of his head until he gave in and went looking for any mention of the idiot on the gossip magazines online. Sure enough (just like promised) there was a bad picture of Altair smiling at some dark-haired-woman Malik didn’t recognize with a headline proclaiming they may-or-may-not be an item. _’Sources said_ ’ that the couple was _very close_ and seemed _very happy_. Malik looked up Maria Thorpe and found himself looking at a timeless-sort-of-beauty, all soft-toned in the photograph but her dark eyes and her painfully perfect smile did little to mask her obvious contempt for the world all around her. 

Malik hated her back in equal measure to how much she seemed to hate the camera taking her photograph. And with that simmering sensation of unhappiness swimming in his gut, he closed the stupid computer and very _purposefully_ began reading. 

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> So did Altair have sex with Maria Thorpe?
> 
> I only ask because I would have thought potential Oscar winning actresses were beyond him
> 
> No, he didn’t
> 
> I don’t know the story
> 
> just that she accosted him in a bar
> 
> And he went with it
> 
> Well. Life with him is never boring.
> 
> How are you?
> 
> Distracted
> 
> Disgusted?
> 
> This trip is a waste of money
> 
> But Altair is dragging me out to see things today
> 
> Enjoy it.
> 
> The way I’m enjoying sleeping in your bed and wearing your shirts like dresses.
> 
> pics or it didn’t happen
> 
> It happened.  
> 

The thing was, Desmond had never actually had (a girlfriend) a woman that wore his shirts before. His frame of reference for the whole phenomenon and the effect that it had on people was based solely in popular culture references. He expected to roll his eyes at the stupidity of it. But then, Lucy sent him a picture of her in one of his long-sleeved buttoned-down shirts that was unbuttoned so far down that the white lace of her bra was visible and the hem was so short it seemed that if she lifted her arms, her underwear would show.

Her legs were fantastic and her smiling face was a taunt. He was caught between calling her mean things and telling her how incredibly beautiful he really thought she was. (Well, and the third option that involved him masturbating and he wasn’t sure if that was the reaction she wanted or if he had only just that moment rediscovered his sex-drive.) 

In the end he sent back a text that said, _nice_.

Her reply was, _you are an ocean away from me. I cannot see your stupid face to tell if nice means ‘I’d fuck that’ or ‘I find that endearingly sweet’ so if you could just come up with a better word than nice I would appreciate it._

Desmond smiled at his stupid phone. And sent, _you should assume that the first is almost always relevant to my face whenever I see you, but the second is equally as common. I like the way you look in my clothes. Is that better?_

_Yes. Now jerk off, pine and do not sleep with anyone._

_Promise,_ Desmond sent to her before Altair interrupted his attempts to follow through on the promises demanding to know how long it took to get ready to go look at dumb historical and cultural things in London.


	30. Chapter 30

> **Kadar**
> 
> Is he more or less attractive now that he has a large tattoo on his upper arm?
> 
> He can’t be the same level of attractive?
> 
> What have you decided about dating girls?
> 
> No he can’t be the same level of attractive.
> 
> I just need to know how long you’re going to persist with this
> 
> I haven’t decided really. For now I’m trying to survive junior year.
> 
> That’s stupid.
> 
> But it’s not the tattoo or its placement that makes him more attractive
> 
> Education is stupid.
> 
> It’s the fact that he got the tattoo to remind himself of his Mom
> 
> What?
> 
> Our conversations usually make more sense than this.
> 
> So you’re turned on by this sudden show of sensitivity?
> 
> Yes they do
> 
> No I’m not turned on. I just respect it
> 
> Sure.

Malik went back to the bookstore twice (in the same week) before he found Sofia in the historical fiction section reading a book that looked (going by the cover) as if it were based in the American Civil War. She looked up at him before he could figure out what to say as a greeting to her. Her coat was spread across her lap and her dress top gaped in such a way that he could see straight down it if he looked at so he looked to the side instead. “I finished,” he said. 

“You did?” she said. She closed the book and put it back on the shelf. She was on her feet in front of him, her pretty face caught in a wide smile as she said, “so? How were they?”

“I liked most of them,” he said. Then he half turned toward the door, “you want to go get a drink? We could talk. I don’t know enough about you to pick out a book yet so I wanted to do a little research first.”

Sofia laughed. “Normally I turn down offers like that but since I know you aren’t sexually attracted to me, I would love to.” She slid her coat back on and showed him to a quiet little café that sold coffee and tea and a variety of fruity drinks. She had tea and picked a table with tall-chairs. “Tell me about the books first,” she said. “Then we can talk about me.”

It was easy to talk about the books. He had substituted friendship for books since he’d first figured out that he wasn’t what his Mother’s god wanted him to be. They had provided him an escape from the disgusting, unfair _now_ that he had desperately needed. Malik told her all the reasons he liked the ones that he liked and all the reasons he didn’t like the ones he didn’t. At the end her drink was empty and his was watered down by the melted ice.

“Character is important to you,” Sofia summed up. “Logic is important to you. Cohesive plot is a plus but not a necessity.” 

“I like things to make sense in the world that the story takes place in. If something is wrong in one chapter, you can’t make it acceptable in another. That’s now how it works.”

“But things are not always so black and white,” Sofia countered. “It is possible that it’s okay later because perceptions of it have changed. If we never evolved or changed the human race would have died.”

“Nobody evolves that quickly,” Malik said. He took a drink and set the glass down again. “Besides, we haven’t evolved or changed nearly as much as we think that we have. The same things happen now that have always happened, the only difference is that we have the ability to communicate more quickly and more consistently. It’s easier to find someone—whether they are here or across the planet—that agrees with you. So, nobody has to be alone but war. Prejudice. Hate crimes? All of that still exists. We call ourselves better than we were but I’d put down even money that if I walked up to any straight white guy and started hitting on him he’d say something about the color of my skin or sexual orientation.” Malik shrugged. “I mean, I don’t even speak Arabic in public. People are the same ignorant animals they always were.”

Sofia nodded. “That is an incredibly pessimistic view of the world, Malik. I’m not married to some guy twice my age being forced to pop out babies and be happy about it so I like to think that we’ve evolved for the better at least a little. The world isn’t perfect, people aren’t perfect but we are capable of change.” Then she said, “so ask me a question. You have three and then you have to pick out four books for me to read. We’ll do this again next week?”

“Sure,” Malik said. He took another drink. “Favorite season, favorite fairy tale and did you read Harry Potter?”

For a moment, Sofia just stared at him like he was crazy. Then she cleared her throat. “I very much like summer. I like being able to go outside and explore without being burdened by a coat. I’m a fan of sweating and of being lazy in a patch of sunshine reading a good book. I don’t know if it’s a favorite but I remember something about a woman who had to choose between being happy in youth or being happy in old age and she chose old age so she was miserable because her destiny kept her from being happy? In the end she married a king, of course. I did read Harry Potter. I have no strong opinion about it though.”

Malik nodded. “Give me about thirty minutes.” He finished his drink and they walked back to the bookstore. She found the book she’d been reading before and he went searching for something she’d enjoy.

\--

son-of-no-one: did you know that flowers have meanings? (10m ago)

Son-of-no-one: my Grandma was very interested in flowers but she didn’t tell me they meant things. (10m ago)

Son-of-no-one: so someone tell me what kind of flower I should give to someone to say, ‘so I think you’re pretty but if you could stop calling me morally corrupt that would be nice?’ (9m ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, I do not think you understand the purpose of giving a woman flowers. (8m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, Rhododendron means ‘beware’, Lavender means ‘distrust’ and Hibiscus means ‘delicate beauty’. However, I agree with @EzioAuditore. (7m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-Badger, so what does gladiolus mean? (6m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, it means ‘learn how to use Google’. (5m ago)

Altair smirked at the phone before he tucked it away into his pocket. He was sitting where he could see the half-finished bouquets on the tables in one of the massive rooms in the hotel that were generally reserved for fancy dinners or weddings. The woman that had been arranging them had left (because of him) but she had to come back eventually because it was her job to make sure the flowers were put together correctly. He only had to wait long enough.

He was so concentrated on looking forward that he didn’t even notice that someone was walking up behind him until there were soft fingertips poking him in the back of the shoulder. The woman was standing behind him with her arms over her chest and a pink-spotted anger still making her cheeks very bright. “Hi,” he said.

“Do not waste your time speaking to me,” she said. “I have no interest in you. I came to say this to you again because you did not seem to understand it the first time.” Her English was heavy with an accent that was reminiscent of how he remembered his Father’s. Her words were very clear but it was evident that English was not her first language.

“I do understand it,” he said in Arabic. “In many languages.”

This seemed to infuriate her even more and he couldn’t help but smile at her anger. She slapped him across the face. It was hardly the first time he’d been hit but it was most definitely the first time he had ever been struck by a woman. Her voice was low and scathing in disapproval when she hissed at him. “You are a pig.” 

“Hey,” he said. His hand covered her handprint on his face. “What is your problem?”

“My problem?” she repeated. “My problem is that you came up to me with filth in your mind thinking I would be honored to receive your attention. Rather than accept that I am not interested, you are still here.”

“Filth in my mind?” he said (louder than he should have). “I think you have filth in your mind. I was going to ask you about the flowers.”

Her face made it clear what she thought of that ridiculous idea. She scoffed outright that turned kind of into a laugh of disbelief that tapered off into a squinting-glare. While her righteous anger had sustained her this far, her confidence wavered. “What would you ask me about the flowers? What would a man like you know about flowers?”

“Why do you think you know me?” he demanded. “I have never met you.”

“I do not have to meet you. I know who you are and your reputation precedes you.” Yeah, of course it did. Everyone and this woman too all knew exactly who he was and exactly what sort of things he did. 

Altair rolled his eyes. “Amazing how you know everything about me because you read it on the internet. See, I didn’t know anything about you before I said hello but I know everything I need to know now. It was nice to meet you.” Then he walked away because he had many better things to do rather than stand around and be insulted by a woman who arranged flowers for a living. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_  
>  Yesterday, this woman was arranging flowers in one of the private rooms in the hotel. I saw a few flowers that I was familiar with so I went to ask her about them—what they were called and if they were for a wedding. They seemed like wedding flowers. I barely managed to say hello to her before she started telling me to leave her alone and telling me that I was without morals and I shouldn’t be near her.
> 
> Great right?
> 
> Except today, I woke up to an apology note. It basically said that she didn’t realize I was completely godless and since I wasn’t actually a Muslim that I was already an infidel and there was no saving me. Apparently, I am an example of every kind of sin possible. I think you two could be great friends.

The picture that Altair sent him was a picture of the note. The writing was neat enough to make out clearly even though the picture wasn’t the best quality. It more or less explained that Altair was walking sin and that the woman (Adha, or so her signature led him to believe) did not want to associate with him. It was relatively polite. It almost verged onto apologetic (more that Altair would be going to hell than that she felt she’d done something wrong).

Malik sighed at it, failed to think of how to respond to it in the few minutes he had to do so and then closed his laptop and went to his next class.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> I think Altair has a thing for women who hate him
> 
> I’d say duh but you seem to be genuinely surprised.
> 
> This woman yelled at him two days ago and he just abandoned me because he saw her in a flower shop
> 
> She slapped him on the face
> 
> Hard.
> 
> Maybe he likes getting hit by hot girls.
> 
> He would.
> 
> well, except for how he whines about being in pain
> 
> Well, in that case he has to regain his masculinity by seducing this woman.
> 
> It’ll all blow over when he has sex with her.
> 
> The thing is I can’t tell if you’re serious or not
> 
> I’m slightly serious.
> 
> But I don’t support anything that involves Altair cheating on Sass Badger.
> 
> So I’m going to go in the store now. See what’s happening.

By the time Desmond had walked into the store, the woman (Adha according to her nametag) had moved from smiling at customers from behind the counter to glaring at Altair with a pair of scissors in her left hand that seemed threatening enough anyone might have taken a step backward. 

“—explained in the letter,” she was saying when Desmond came to a stop at Altair’s left side. She looked at him and did a double take back and forth between the two of them. She had a pretty olive tone to her skin with dark hair and vibrant eyes. There was a stiff frown fixed on her face that made her whole body seem to go rigid beneath her soft-cotton uniform shirt. 

“You also said that if I did have an actual question about flowers that I could ask you if I saw you again,” Altair said. He motioned around the shop. “I can see you right now.”

Sometimes, Desmond thought that Altair went out of his way to be an asshole. It seemed impossible that any one person could maintain that level of anger and stupidity without trying. He sighed and resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose.

“Yes, fine,” Adha said. She let go of the scissors and turned to face Altair fully. There was a counter between them and several inches of height difference so that she had to look up to see him and he was looking down at her in such a way as to give off an air of perpetual superiority. “What is your question?”

“Gladiolus,” Altair said. ‘What do they stand for?”

For a moment, Adha’s whole face went blank and then she cleared her throat and said, “commonly, strength of character? Why did you need to ask me this question? What reason did you have to need to know this?”

“You tell me,” Altair said. “You’re the one that knows everything about me.” Then turned around to leave before she could answer. It was the move of a tantrum-throwing child. Not at all mature.

Desmond smiled since he was now left standing there awkwardly next to the counter with the woman gaping in confused anger at the space where his cousin had been a few moments ago. “It was our Grandmother’s favorite flower. That and deadly nightshade. Thank you,” Desmond said. 

“Wait,” Adha said. “Did he really just want to ask me about flowers?”

There was no way to know that now. Altair would probably swear to it until he died so there was no reason not to go along with it at this point. Desmond just shrugged. “It’s as likely as it isn’t,” is what he said. Then he went to find his cousin.

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
>   
>  ****
> 
> ****
> 
> Kadar
> 
> He sent me a letter written in Arabic
> 
> apparently, this woman thought he was being unacceptably lustful in her direction
> 
> And you freaked out and haven’t answered him yet?
> 
> What? Why would you assume that?
> 
> Because he sent you a letter in Arabic and if you respond to it you’ll be basically admitting you’re a dude that speaks Arabic?
> 
> That’s stupid.
> 
> But no I haven’t responded
> 
> Of course you haven’t. Just say whatever comes to mind. 
> 
> Remember that he’s your friend. 
> 
> Forget about your paranoia.

Leonardo found him when he was on his way to the bookstore. “Where are you going?” Leonardo asked. 

“Uh, I’m supposed to go meet this girl,” Malik said. He adjusted the strap of his bag so it wasn’t biting into his neck and the weight was more evenly spread across his chest. He might have gone on to explain about the books and how he wanted to know if she’d liked any of the books he chose for her but Leonardo looked so openly and honestly horrified that Malik couldn’t. “What?”

“Why are you meeting a woman? Is it for a project? Look at you,” he said with a hand motion at him. “You are wearing your nice shirt. You have cologne on. You are _not_ switching sides.” 

Malik laughed at him. “I’m not switching sides,” he agreed. “I met her in this bookstore and we talk about books.”

Leonardo scoffed. “You don’t need a nice shirt to have an intellectual conversation, Malik.” Then he huffed. “Fine, go make friends with some woman that you’ll never have sex with. But if you are inclined, I would like to make use of your body later tonight. If you come by early enough we can watch the next episode of Ezio’s show. I know how you want to know why the cousin is hitting him.”

No, Malik actually didn’t care about that. Could be because he already knew. Instead of that, Malik just rolled his eyes. “Fine, but the orgasms better be worth watching that stupid show.” 

\--

Sass-Badger: Second episode reflections: amazed that @son-of-no-one still has both of his hands. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, you are not the only one. (1h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, I do not condone violence. Besides which, you split open your face. That was God’s justice. (43m ago)

Son-of-no-one: “Gods justice” made me more attractive. Have I mentioned I’m soon to be featured in another series of ads? (40m ago)

Altair was wearing a suit because he had only just escaped the monthly required meeting but Desmond was wearing casual clothes and sitting outside on a day when the sky was so overcast that rain seemed inevitable. The air was cool and the streets were unusually slow. Still, Desmond was smiling at the strained-gray-light and watching the coming-and-going of the city around them while he waited for their overpriced drinks and dried-out-pastries.

“Hey,” Altair said. He snapped a picture of Desmond before he could protest. The smile that had found its way to his face didn’t slip out of place until after the picture saved to his phone. “You’re smiling. I think Lucy’d want to see it.”

Desmond didn’t even protest. He picked up his cup with one of those heavy-heavy sighs and took a sip before setting it down again. “I was just thinking, I don’t think I’ve ever felt—safe? Ever. I wasn’t safe in my house because my Father was always lurking around waiting to find me doing something he could yell at me for. I wasn’t safe at school because I couldn’t say anything, you know? Everything I thought about saying felt like I was going to say— _everything_. The other kids used to ask me if I wanted to play or if I watched some TV show. I got invited to a birthday party once or twice and they’d ask me about my family. Some of them knew about you and Ezio and everyone. But I never told them anything. I never told anyone _anything_. I didn’t feel safe at Grandma’s because my Father was still there. Because I was supposed to be charming and lovable and get her attention and milk her for money. Even when Grandma believed me, even when she sheltered me, I knew that he was still there and that I was still worthless. I knew I couldn’t ever get rid of him.”

“So there’s an ocean between you now and you’re safe?” Altair asked.

“Well, that helps,” Desmond said. “I never told you about him because I couldn’t stand the idea that you’d see me the way he did. But you know and you’re the same idiot you ever were. I’m the same person I’ve always been. Lucy knows and she’s sending me dirty threats and wearing my shirts like dresses and waiting for me to figure it out. The whole world knows about me now.” Desmond sighed and shrugged. “They know about _him_. I don’t have to keep my mouth shut anymore. And this really amazing woman loves me. And you broke Federico. You had Mama fucking Maria groveling.”

Altair smiled and shrugged. “Anything for family,” he said.

“I’m good,” Desmond said. “I feel really good.”

Which was a better outcome than Altair really figured he’d get out of the whole situation. So he offered his own cup up for a toast and Desmond tapped his against Altair’s before they both took a drink.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> My advice is to respect this woman when she says that she has no interest in you. While it’s not always easy to understand where the other person is coming from, it is easy enough to understand when you are not wanted. Accept that her beliefs think the worst of you and find women who do not subscribe to such a rigid set of standards.

Malik spent the weekend at Leonardo’s because it had reliable wi-fi a nice shower and the promise of orgasms. Giving up sex had been easier than he expected that it would be but he wasn’t going to turn down the opportunity to exploit the loophole that he’d discovered. 

Leonardo was out—shopping, working, at the library, Malik wasn’t sure—and Malik laid on his couch and read the new books that Sofia had given him. There were only two but one of them was a few inches thick with dense writing. He was trying to cut his way through it and finding that he couldn’t find enough interest to really get into it. The whole thing was dry and tasteless, like eating chalk-dust. 

(That was what she said when she dropped the book in his hand, “this one takes a while to get good. Don’t stop reading too early or you’ll miss it.”) Still, he thought viciously uncharitable things about her and how he already had to read boring things for school and therefore shouldn’t have to read it for pleasure.

\--

> ###  _February 2, 2008_ : Sexy Saturdays 003: Public Decency Need Not Apply
> 
> “We met at a pool. I was wearing a string bikini. The flirting was pretty brief because I wasn’t interested in getting anything more than dick. We traded a few pleasantries after we finally stopped making eye-contact across the pool. He came to me because that’s how I like it and asked me if I wanted to go for a walk or something. I told him that I would and I led him around the side of the pool house to where that shower for rinsing off the chlorine was. It had three and a half walls that were made of slatted wood and one of those uncomfortable plastic mats.
> 
> “He held me up against the wall while he fucked me. I didn’t think his dick would be the size that it was and that took some adjusting to but he was patient about it. I bit his lips and he left a hickey on my neck. When I finally told him he could move, he fucked him exactly like I like it: hard and fast. I had to give myself a little additional stimulation but he was holding me up against a wall and had no free hands so I don’t think he should lose points for it.”
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays, W: contains sexual content, W: Crude Language_
> 
> • **son-of-no-one:**  
>  Summer. Her name was Florence. When she says ‘bit his lips’ she means ‘tried to chew his face off’ but otherwise it was good.
> 
> • **Sass-Badger [Moderator]  
>  ** Correct. You should screen for possible cannibals before having sex with someone.  
> 

Altair had been in the bath when the call came that he had a visitor. He had been expecting just about anyone in the world except for Adha. When asked if she should be allowed to come up to his room, he said that he’d come down to meet her. His skin was still damp under his clothes when he got to the lobby but Adha was easy enough to find looking conspicuous off to the side, trying to be small and taking up too much space at the same time. 

He walked over to her. “Yes?” he said. “Did you bring one of your male relatives so we could talk without offending your god?”

“I had come to apologize to you for jumping to conclusions but now I am not sure I should waste my time,” she said. 

Yes, well that was a conversation he didn’t really want to have in front of anyone that might be listening. He motioned her over to a set of chairs tucked into a comfortable corner of the room. She sat and crossed her ankles and tucked her skirt around her lap.

Altair sat in a sprawl (in comparison) and said, “look, whatever you’ve heard about me is probably true. I’m not well-versed in Islam but I know enough to know that I probably offend you just by existing.”

“It’s not—” Adha said.

“No it is,” Altair assured her. “I don’t judge myself the way you judge me so I’m not hurt by your assumptions or your conclusion.” He cleared his throat, “why are you here though?”

“I felt bad for assuming the worst of you. I sometimes draw and paint flowers—I know, it seems excessive to work with flowers and paint them but, I am fond of them. I made this.” She lifted up a gently rolled paper that was held closed by a pink ribbon. But she was very careful to move her hands away so that his would not touch hers. “The man that was with you told me that gladiolus were your Grandmother’s favorite flower.” 

Altair unrolled the paper and smiled at the pretty water-color painting of the pink flowers. He couldn’t even think of the stupid flowers without thinking of his Grandmother and her soft-soft hands tucking flowers into his hair while they worked in her greenhouse. The smell of them was ingrained in his memory, programmed time-and-time again to illicit the same sensation of happiness and safety. “Thank you,” he said when he remembered he should have said something at all. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Adha said. “I am going to go.”

“Yeah, of course,” he said. He rolled the paper up but let the ribbon hang off his pinkie where it had gotten hooked when he pulled it free from the painting. He watched her leave and then unrolled the painting again to look at it. Considering how big a jerk he’d been toward her, the gift seemed extravagant in comparison. Even if she’d been wrong about him (which she wasn’t really, he was an oversexed jerk), it seemed strange to have taken the time to make such a beautiful picture. 

\--

bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, you son of a bitch! I used that shower! That day, I used that shower! (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, why are you yelling at me? She was your friend! (45m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @bestofthree, wait the Florence woman is your friend? (40m ago)

Bestofthree: @shirley-templar, the important thing is that I used that shower! You cannot have sex in that shower. (35m ago)

EzioAuditore: @bestofthree, I have some sad news for you. (32m ago)

Federicothefirst: @bestofthree, I also have some sad news for you. (31m ago)

Bestofthree: @son-of-no-one, EzioAuditore, Federicothefirst, you are never allowed to swim in our pool again. Shame on you. (22m ago)

Malik was eating his lunch, trying to read the book that he still didn’t like (if it didn’t get interesting in the next fifty pages he was going to give up) and rolling his eyes over the series of tweets as he read them off his phone. It didn’t surprise (anyone) that the Auditore brothers had made good use of the shower nearest the pool and it didn’t surprise Malik that Altair had done it either. Perhaps it was surprising that Claudia who seemed to be intelligent enough to figure out obvious things hadn’t already figured out that they had used the shower for that purpose.

“Excuse me,” interrupted Malik’s next unsuccessful attempt at reading the book. It belonged to a man with an indeterminable figure (neither fit nor not fit) with a hopeful look on his rounded face. He had freckles and curly dark hair with a nervous twitch to his hands clinging to the straps of his book bag. “I was just wondering if you might want to get a drink or something and talk. I mean—I…” It was a pitiful attempt at starting a conversation. The poor man turned red all under his freckles and somehow made that ridiculous look work for him. He had the distinct expression of a man who regretted his choices. “I read that,” the man said nodding down at the cover of the book. “It takes a while to get into but it’s good. I’m sorry.”

“Like, how long?” Malik asked when the man turned to leave without offering his name. “Because I feel like I’ve been dragging this book uphill for sixty years and I still don’t care about anything in it. Twenty pages? Thirty pages?”

“Uh,” the man said. He motioned for the book and opened it to where Malik had marked it. He skimmed over a page and then closed it. “Maybe thirty or forty pages? It pretty much happens instantly. You hate the book and yourself for reading it and then all of a sudden you have convinced yourself you don’t need to write that essay for American history because this book is more important than your future.”

Malik snorted at that. “What kind of drink?” he asked. 

“Oh—uh—what do you drink?”

“I don’t drink coffee or alcohol or soda. I do drink tea,” Malik said. Then he said, “I’m Malik since they hadn’t bothered with names.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m Quinn. Should we just agree on a time and place now? Do you want to meet here and find somewhere?” The look of hope in his face was far too adorable even if the rest of his body was somewhat lacking. “I’d promise that I’m not always this embarrassing but I don’t want to raise your expectations.”

“You’re fine,” Malik said. “We can meet here—when is good for you?”

Oh and Quinn’s stupid face was so sweetly surprised that it was impossible to think poorly of.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn’La-Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> One woman is not a representative sampling of all women. Yes they make sense as long as you take the time to speak to and understand them. Listening is key.
> 
> That painting is beautiful. I’m not familiar with the flower but I was able to find a picture after some research and this woman is very skilled. I cannot guess at her reasoning but I can reiterate that if her religion is important to her that your continued advances would probably not be met with open arms. 
> 
> In other news, I got asked out by a guy. I’m not sure how that factors into my resolution to avoid having sex with a variety of men. How have you been doing with that? You haven’t posted anything stupid to your twitter lately so I just assume you haven’t found anyone to have sex with lately. Unless you took advantage of an obvious situation and had sex with Maria Thorpe.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  I am confused by the mixed signals that I’m getting from this woman. Because on the one hand she thinks I’m walking sin and has wasted no time in telling me that and slapping me when she felt it was appropriate. Then she brought me this painting (it’s the attached file) and said she was sorry. So does she hate me or not? 
> 
> Do women ever make sense?

Altair was frowning at his phone across the room from Desmond. His expression had gone from amused to indignant to quietly wrathful while he read. At the end he scoffed so loudly it was audible across the room and slapped the phone down against his thigh. He was exaggerated with distaste. ‘Why the hell do women have to be so fucking confusing?” he asked. “Why can’t they be like Lucy? She is basically a man.”

“She’s really not,” Desmond said.

“She really is,” Altair countered. He looked at his phone again and sneered all over again. “I’m going for a walk.” Then he got up, found his shoes and pulled them on before dragging his coat off the hook and slamming the door behind him when he went. The resulting quiet seemed ominous in nature. Desmond considered going after Altair and decided he was old enough to take care of himself. Instead of following, he went back to searching through available apartments in New York, pausing only here-and-there to send the links of the ones he liked to Lucy who was half-asleep back in his bed across the ocean. Her replies were generally favorable but sleepy.

> **Lucy**
> 
> Altair just said you were basically a man and left to take a walk
> 
> Fuck! He found out about my secret dick.
> 
> He was making faces at his phone
> 
> He was complaining about women being confusing
> 
> Oh so it was Sass that pissed him off.
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Fifty bucks says he goes out and has revenge sex with someone
> 
> Fifty bucks says he doesn’t realize its revenge sex.
> 
> It’s a bet.
> 
> I don’t have a dick, btw
> 
> I find that very attractive about you.
> 
> I find the fact that you do have a dick to be very attractive.
> 
> Yes, that works out nicely
> 
> Oh yes it does.


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter THIRTY

> **Desmond**
> 
> Did you plan on returning to the hotel today?
> 
> Yes Mother.
> 
> I ran into Adha at the park.
> 
> How do things like that happen to you?
> 
> I thought she hated you.
> 
> Me too.

Altair didn’t believe in fate because he refused to put stock into anything that offered arbitrary reasoning for the things that had happened in his life. Fate was much the same as any god he’d ever heard of. He would rather believe in coincidence than fate. He also liked the notion that sometimes, you only started noticing something after you saw it for the first time. What other people thought of as fate was just a heightened awareness of being.

Finding Adha in the park, for instance, was no act of fate or God but the simple fact that up until a few days ago he wouldn’t have known her from anyone. Now the sight of her long dark hair and her indeterminable expression made him stop and look a half-moment longer. She must have seen him almost in time with him seeing her because she rested her hand against the book she’d been reading and sighed into the cold air between them. “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“I’m visiting London with my cousin,” Altair said. He pushed his hands into his pockets and kept a quiet distance between them. There were enough other people in the park that nobody should have gotten the notion they were doing anything illicit or untoward. “I thought you knew everything about me.”

Adha sighed at him. “I did not say that. I know very little about you. Only your face, your name and that you have recently been spending time with Maria Thorpe.”

So did everyone in the world that cared about things like that. Altair sighed. It would have been just as easy to keep-on-moving because he didn’t want to stop and talk to another person who didn’t have any use for him. He wanted to find someone that actually did want to be around him. “I did her a favor because people were following her,” Altair said. But, “why did you give me that painting?”

“How is implying that you had a sexual encounter a favor to any woman? Because I felt that I should apologize for assuming things about you.”

“You shouldn’t apologize for things that you believe in,” Altair said. Explaining the nature of his favor to Maria seemed like a waste of time considering Adha’s apparent feelings about sex. “My Grandmother said if we all went around apologizing for the things we believed in, the whole world would have nothing to do with their time but apologize. If you hurt someone with your beliefs, you should have the backbone to stand by them.” 

“What beliefs did your Grandmother have?” Adha tucked a slip of paper into her book and set it to the side. She was dressed in layers, sitting on the bench with her hands curled around the seat of it as she leaned forward. “Why do you talk about her and not your parents?”

“My parents are dead, my Mom died when I was born and my Dad before I was five. My Grandmother raised me. She didn’t believe in God if that’s what you’re asking. She believed in individual determination and _manners_. She’d probably worshipped Darwin over Jesus. Survival of the fittest was her motto in life.”

Adha looked very sad to hear such a thing. “Why didn’t she believe in God?”

“I don’t know,” Altair said. “It wasn’t something we talked about. We celebrated Christian holidays because a lot of my family is Catholic.”

“Was your father Muslim?” 

Altair sighed. “Yes. I remember him praying. He never taught me how, he never told me why he did it. Then he died so I don’t even know if he cared what I became or what I believed.” The cold was abrasive against his cheeks and Altair was bitter with loneliness. “I should go,” he said, “have a good day, Adha.”

“If you have questions,” Adha said, “I offer my help.”

“Questions about what?”

“Islam. Flowers? I am always working.” Then she stood up and took her book with her. “It is strange finding you now, in my life. It is strange speaking to you and hearing something so unexpected come from a face that feels familiar to me.” But she didn’t explain those comments or pause to let him ask for any clarification. She was already walking away and his choices lay in running after her or letting her go. She already thought he was a creep, there was no reason to make it worse by proving her correct.

\--

>   
>  **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays, W: contains sexual content, W: Crude Language_
> 
> • **Anon**  
>  What does that mean “I didn’t think his dick would be the size that it was and that took some adjusting to”? I assume that his penis was larger than she expected but why would that require adjustment?  
>  • **ReindeersWinter02**  
>  Obvious virgin ^^  
>  • **Anonymous**  
>  Actually, it’s entirely possible the OP is not a virgin but has an oversized vag. Never going to find a man that likes that kind of problem.  
>  • **ReindeersWinter02**  
>  Maybe a black guy.
> 
>  
> 
> • **Curiosity Named Me**  
>  So, I’ve always read that wearing condoms is just something that you absolutely should do every time you’ve had sex. I’m on birth control but I heard there’s still a chance that could fail. I don’t want to get pregnant but my boyfriend keeps telling me that it’s like .001% chance that would happen but he says it’s hard for him to enjoy having sex while he’s wearing a condom. What should I do?  
>  • **NotYourBrother**  
>  Dump your boyfriend. He’s a jerk that’s trying to pressure you into something that you’ve possibly already told him isn’t going to happen by using a reason that makes absolutely no sense.

Kadar wasn’t going to respond to the many (many, many) questions about sex, sexuality and reproductive systems that had started cropping up on the Sexy Saturdays posts (because half the time, just reading the stupid posts gave him a hard on that was deeply confused). He assumed that Malik would dig his head out of his ass long enough to answer some of them or to tell people to leave it alone.

Except Malik didn’t. Kadar set up a barrier to keep too-young-kids from getting to the Sexy Saturdays posts by making them click a pop-up asserting they were eighteen or older. Then he set to work answering some of the easier questions while researching more informative resources for them to take their questions to.

\--

EzioAuditore: I’m dying to know if @MariaThorpe and @son-of-no-one are actually dating. 

Shirley-Templar: @EzioAuditore, I believe that differs depending on the source.

MariaThorpe: @EzioAuditore, a lady simply never kisses and tells, a gentleman would never ask.

EzioAuditore: @MariaThorpe, in which case, I apologize.

When Altair finally got home (today, later than the day before), Desmond was bored enough to be looking up apartments again. Lucy was unavailable (because she had friends, or something, that missed her and wanted to spend time with her) so he was trying to work out the pros and cons of each place by himself. His charming kid-cousin came in, flopped down on the couch next to him (smelling like flowers and unresolved sexual tension) and leaned his head so he could see the screen.

“Why don’t you move into my building?” Altair asked.

“Money?” Desmond said.

“I own the building,” Altair said. As if everyone should have known that. Of course he owned it since he lived there. “I could probably convince whoever manages it to give you a discount on the place.”

“But then I’d be living even closer to you,” Desmond said. He turned his body just enough to put a sliver of space between them and Altair sighed, tipped his head back and stared blankly up at the ceiling. “What are you doing with this woman, Altair?”

“Talking. Arranging flowers.” 

Well that sounded like it was going to end positively for everyone involved. Desmond closed the laptop and tipped his own head back to stare up at the ceiling. “I’m ready to go home. I know that you’ve got this whole plan to ignore life for a while but you can’t do that now. You’ve announced yourself as a man to Mama Maria and you’ve started something you have to follow through with.”

“Do you believe in love?” Altair asked. He tipped his head just enough that he could see Desmond’s face without getting too close to him. “Romantic love.”

That, at least, answered the question as to the nature of Altair’s current moodiness. The cloud of gray that was following him around made more sense than it had before. (As did his pronounced and obvious silence on social media.) “I believe in love but I think people are too impatient to be loved and to love someone else. They mistake that first exhilarating rush of interest and attachment for love. I think love should be blind, I think love should be made up of acceptance of the ugliest parts of another person in equal measures to the joy you feel at being in their presence. It’s not like that—I’ve been a bartender long enough to watch a lot of idiots mistaking flirting with falling in love. Love isn’t compliments and diamond rings. Love takes time and commitment.”

Altair sighed. “Do you love Lucy?”

“I would be stupid not to love Lucy,” Desmond said. Then he elbowed Altair in the chest. “Are you falling in love with someone?”

Altair laughed. “No. No, I don’t believe in love.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I did not have sex with Maria Thorpe. There are a variety of good reasons that I didn’t (most of which involve fearing for my personal safety) but the most important reason is that she didn’t want to have sex with me. As insane as you seem to find that concept, it does happen.
> 
> I did run into Adha again, though. How was your date?

There was a variety of things the e-mail made Malik feel. A great confusing variety of sensations and bubbling thoughts that rose in his head like snapping little pops of sound and scattered intentions. Things should have been easy to sort out—

But the e-mail found its way to him four days after the last time Altair had bothered to say anything to him. The span of time not even an unreasonable stretch considering how little they knew one another (and yet an infinity of time that seemed to drag on in perpetual disappointing silence). Malik felt stupid (at best) for being _bothered_ by the quiet when he hadn’t even fully come to accept that Altair was his friend at all, much less a friend dear enough to him that he coveted his attention.

That was Altair’s thing anyway: needing constant attention. His passive-aggressive attacks that came with the little dribbling bits of information about what he had been doing and who he had been doing it with. What sort of statement was ‘I ran into Adha again, though. How was your date?’ The proximity of the two ideas clearly linked them. Altair had stated one and thought the next.

Malik’s thoughts on his actual date were basically non-existent. Quinn was adorably shy but his lack of self-confidence (while charming at first) grated against Malik’s resolve to give him a fair chance. The men that Malik had bothered spending time with before were aggressively confident in themselves. Still, the date (if you call it such a thing) had been perfectly fine. They saw a movie, ate food, talked about the sort of things you talked about when you knew nothing about the other person. He had laughed (once or twice) and Quinn had seemed genuinely pleased to have another living human being to speak to. 

They didn’t have sex, though. They didn’t even kiss. The lack of physical contact left Malik feeling strange in a way that aggravated the still-fresh wound that he’d given himself when he realized he was judging men on their faces and their stomach muscles and sleeping with anyone that was worth getting naked for. He didn’t want to be shallow but he was. He didn’t want to be so sexually available but he was starving for it. 

All of that, the great confusing mess of it, was cycling around in his head as he sat in the library with his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand waiting for an idea as to how to answer the e-mail to appear.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Where you planning on returning any time soon?
> 
> Oh shit
> 
> I just found out what time it was
> 
> I assumed.
> 
> I’m on my way

The florist’s shop had run out of customers a few hours ago, the last lonely man who wandered in to place an order had been over an hour ago now. The doors were locked and the other employees had left. Altair was sitting on a stool next to the work table, picking up the scattered leaves and getting a cloudy-headache from the fog-thick scent of flower petals and fresh-cut-stems. There were bandages on all of his fingers from where he’d cut his hand open on a rose.

Adha was sitting on the stool facing him, the debris of her last arrangement spread between them as the ding of his phone announcing a new message interrupted what she’d been saying about how she’d ended up selling flowers in London. Her face was pretty with exertion and she glanced over at the clock with an embarrassed pink blush creeping up over her face. “How long have we been here?”

“I don’t know,” Altair said. “I was listening.”

She rolled her eyes and straightened up from where she’d been leaning against the tabletop. “You are very clever,” she said as she went looking for the wastebasket to sweep the leaves and fallen petals into. 

“How am I clever?” Altair asked.

“I always say to myself: this time I will not listen to him. I say to myself, I do not care what he has to say. I remind my eyes and my body that I will not be pleased to see you. Yet, here we are—alone. It is indecent.” Her condemnation was gentle but sincere. She finished cleaning her worktable and dropped the wastebasket back to the floor. 

Altair didn’t move any closer to her, but sighed. “I’m not going to pretend like I didn’t enjoy hearing your stories. I do like you and I am happy to see you. But this isn’t part of an elaborate ruse.” He stood up and picked up his phone. “I wish you’d stop thinking the worst of me.”

“I think of you exactly what there is to think,” Adha said. But she was close enough to him that he could see the wrinkles in her shirt from how she’d been sitting and smell her body spray (weak after so many hours). She was close enough they were sharing body heat back-and-forth. Her eyes were looking right at his face, at his bare arm resting on her table and lingering at the pulse in his throat. “We should not keep meeting,” she said.

Altair tipped his head, crept his fingers across the table to touch her fingertips with his own. “Why?”

“There are many reasons. I do not have time for you,” she said. She turned her hand over on the table so the very tips of them brushed over the gummy edges of the bandages and her face softened as she looked at his wounded hands. “There should be no reason for you to see me again.”

“I could think of one or two,” Altair said. 

Adha’s smile was heartbreaking. “You are a very bad influence,” she said softly.

“Why does everyone say that?”

“Because you make me want things that are forbidden to me,” Adha said. It was so simple to say.

“Why are they forbidden? If all of those rules were so important to you, why are we here right now?” Altair stood up and Adha didn’t move away but shift ever-so-slightly closer to him. Her head tipped back and her hair shifted across her shoulders as she hovered her hand over his chest like she wanted so very much to touch him and couldn’t convince herself it was allowable. “This doesn’t feel wrong. You can’t deny that you—”

“I’m engaged to someone,” Adha interrupted. 

“What?”

“I forget when I am here with you. I forget the promises I have made. I forget that you are very bad for me. I forget all of the things I have been taught. When I say that you are the embodiment of temptation, I do not exaggerate. There are things that I wish I could do with you. My thoughts are heavy with them all the time—even in the presence of my future husband. I want to wash you out of my brain and be free of the wanting.” Her hand pressed against his chest as hot as a brand. His covered her smaller hand as she frowned at it. “Please leave. Please do not come back.”

“Yeah,” Altair said. He nodded. 

\--

BestofThree: I admit that when @sass-badger got an account I expected to need to remove @son-of-no-one from the list of people I follow. I thought there would be chatter. (20m ago)

Sass-Badger: @BestofThree, as I understand it, there is a yearly migration to Europe during which time @son-of-no-one wanders around looking for something stupid to do. (18m ago)  
Sass-Badger: I’m just waiting until he discovers that gay men still exist. (18m ago)

BestofThree: @Sass-Badger, ha! Well, with his physical attributes, I’m sure someone will make a pass at him. In the meantime, I am curious to know something (15m ago)

Sass-Badger: @bestofthree, I will not answer questions about myself. Other than that, I really am not google. (13m ago)

BestofThree: @Sass-Badger, yes but google does not know why @son-of-no-one got his new tattoo. He has not shared his reasons with us. I am want to know if you know. (12m ago)

EzioAuditore: @Sass-Badger, this is a bet. (12m ago)

BestofThree: @Sass-Badger, no pressure but I need to win this bet. (12m ago)

Sass-Badger: I’m not convinced that you don’t already know but for the sake of playing along with your bet, @son-of-no-one’s new tattoo is to honor his Mother. (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: @EzioAuditore, @Sass-Badger, who won your bet? (2m ago)

EzioAuditore: @Sass-Badger, she did. (2m ago)

BestofThree: one day @EzioAuditore will learn never to bet against women who know more than him. (1m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I believe the correct moral of this story is assume, if it’s worth knowing about me @sass-badger probably knows or could figure it out. (1m ago) 

Malik was sitting outside of the bookstore, under the hanging eaves, just barely outside of the rain that was already puddling all across the cracked sidewalk. He was soaking wet despite having made it most of the way to the store before the rain began. It was cold-and-painful in the still frigid fresh air. Yet there was with his hand holding his phone out in front of his face, trading barbs with people who lived in a world so far removed from his own that he could not begin to understand they were real people.

“You’re soaking wet!” Sofia said when she rounded the corner and saw him. She had an umbrella held over her head that the water was sheeting off the side of and tall rain boots protecting her feet. “Did you walk?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. He was freezing to death. He motioned back toward the campus. “I always walk. I don’t have a car. I haven’t learned the bus routes.” He felt like he was shivering. It was very likely considering how quickly the damp cold was making his temperature drop. “I would have gone back but it’s a long walk.”

“You idiot!” Sofia said. Then she stepped forward far enough to grab him by the elbow and pulled him forward. “Come on, I have enough books at my place I can find something you’ll be willing to read.” She did not bother to give him a chance to object to the offer but tucked him into her tiny car and drove him back across town to her apartment. It was a modest looking thing, made out of brick and reasonable rent. Her apartment was on the ground level and it smelled like sweet-scented candles and old-old books. Her walls were barely visible behind the shelves and shelves of books. There was no TV but a careful arrangement of furniture that promoted the notion of an oversized reading nook. The lamps were soft-light and many, the room was warm-as-sunshine even as he stood at the threshold shivering harder now than he had before.

Sofia hung her umbrella over a towel and took off her boots. “Take off your wet things. I have some of my old boyfriend’s clothes in my closet still. The bathroom is right here.” She motioned down the short hall. 

Malik changed (gratefully) and didn’t even bother to point out that the clothes she gave him were too large for him. He had a belt that he used to cinch the pants to fit and the too-large shirt was hardly a problem worth complaining about. There were no socks so he accepted a blanket when she offered it to him along with a cup of hot tea. “This wasn’t really necessary.”

“I would have found a way to get you back here eventually,” Sofia said. She didn’t sit but go to pluck a few books off her shelves in a way that betrayed exactly how organized her system was. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You seem—uneasy.”

“Nothing serious,” Malik said. “Just— It’s nothing serious.” He took the books she offered him and flipped them over to read the summaries on the back. The words ran together and his thoughts wandered off so he set them against his lap and found Sofia staring at him. “What?”

“Is it a boy?” she asked. 

“No.” But the answer was too fast to be believed by anyone, much less someone that was so quick-witted as Sofia. She had the grace not to accuse him of being a liar (or to scoff) but conveyed her disbelief with her eyebrows nonetheless. “It’s me. I’m a shallow, hypocritical jerk. I spent the past year and a half having sex with anyone I thought met my arbitrary requirements. Then I found out they were writing reviews about me on some website and I’m furious at myself for being so stupid. I wasn’t raised to be like this. Shallow and slutty. But I am. I want to find some guy with a nice face and abs and rip his clothes off.”

Sofia laughed. “You are amazingly awful.”

“Thanks.”

“Why does it matter to you that you want to have sex? Is it because you think it’s wrong or because it’s distracting? Are you upset because of what people wrote about you? Has finding those reviews changed your perception of yourself? There’s nothing wrong with having sex as long as you’re smart about it and it’s what you want.” Then she made an expression like a grimace and shrugged a little. “Being shallow is kind of dickish, though.”

Malik covered his face with both hands. “I know.”

“You do not have much experience with being human, do you?”

When he moved his hands away from his face, Sofia was smiling at him fondly. Malik sighed. “I—I don’t want to be shallow. I want to look at someone I think is ugly or plain and admire them for something greater than their physical bodies. I want to be attracted to someone because of who they are. I’m not. I can’t see past what I don’t like about their faces or their bodies or how they should lose a few pounds.” Because he was an awful human being that was stuck in park, unable to move on or develop into something better. Slinging insults and moral objections to Altair’s behavior got all the more aggravatingly difficult to justify every time he rolled his eyes at some plain-faced-guy trying to flirt with him.

“You’re mistaking lust and love,” Sofia said. “Lust is shallow and petty. If all you want is sex, do not be so hard on yourself. We are hardwired to search out the healthiest and most attractive mate possible. I don’t think you’re at the point in your life where love is important to you. When it is, looks won’t matter so much anymore.”

“Ugh, you should meet Leonardo. I think you’d love one another.” Malik picked up the cup of tea and sipped at it—burnt his tongue—and then picked up the spoon to add more sugar to it. “He’s always telling me to be patient.”

“Who is Leonardo?”

“Uh, he’s my friend,” Malik said. And then, since it was as much a definition of their relationship as it wasn’t, “that I have sex with. He’s a genius. He’s also tall, really attractive and amazing at sex.”

Sofia laughed. “I’d love to meet him. Invite him next time?” Malik nodded. “Good. Now enough about how awful you are. I want to talk about the books you gave me.”

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> He did something even worse than revenge sex.
> 
> Oh god, what?
> 
> He revenge-loved someone
> 
> They stopped seeing one another four days ago
> 
> He keeps moping
> 
> Well, every Romeo has a Rosaline.
> 
> Did you just make a Shakespeare reference?
> 
> More importantly, did you just make Sass Juliet?
> 
> I am a little bit drinking. But yes I did.
> 
> So, you going to come home or do a tour of Europe’s many available vaginas?
> 
> I think we’re coming home
> 
> He doesn’t know that yet.
> 
> I’m going to tell him soon
> 
> Good.

When Desmond couldn’t stand the pouting anymore, he found Altair sitting in the bar making a mess with napkins, sat next to him and elbowed him in the ribs. His pathetic baby cousin let out a sigh and turned his head to look at him. He made a motion with his hands as if asking for whatever it was Desmond was going to say about his choices.

“I think it’s time to go home,” Desmond said.

Altair shrugged, straightened up on the bar stool and picked up his glass to swallow the rest of it in one gulp. “Ezio wants me to come out to California and make a fool of myself on his show for a while. Probably make friends with Federico.”

“Wouldn’t be the worst thing.”

“Yeah, might need to borrow your girlfriend. Federico isn’t the most forgiving man in his family.” Altair turned the glass over and set it over the pile of napkins before turning on his stool to face Desmond entirely. “You think she’d go? Just for a few days?”

“Maybe.” Desmond reached out and hooked an arm around Altair’s neck to pull him close enough to slap him on the back in an effective attempt at a hug. It was brief before he was pushed backward. “Come on. You need to sleep because we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“What were you going to do if I said no?” Altair asked. 

“I hadn’t considered that,” Desmond said. He got up while Altair made ugly faces at him. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@hotmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I think you have the wrong idea about me. You can’t ask me for information and give away how much you want it and think that I’m just going to give it to you without making you work for it. It’s almost as if you have forgotten everything you should have learned about me.
> 
> How about another bet? You do well and I’ll answer any question about myself that doesn’t involve my name or location.
> 
> _Altair wrote:_  
>  Tell me something true about you. I promise that I won’t try to find you, I promise I won’t ask for more than you’re willing to give. I feel like I’m talking to a person that doesn’t exist. I could be. I could be talking to a dedicated robot right now. I know nothing about you. Well—you have a brother and we’ve had sex. I know that. You’re a pain in my ass. I can’t stop myself from thinking: what would Sass say about this? I hate that. I hate everything you’ve done to me. I was getting along just fine and then you showed up to tell me how wrong I was and now I can’t stop thinking about how I could do better. It’s _exhausting_.
> 
> So tell me something true, something _human_ about yourself? 

Altair was sitting in an airport waiting room, gripping his phone far too tight to be good for its continued ability to work properly. Desmond was sitting at his side grumbling about long-long flights and how much he hated them. (Poor whiner.) “What. A. Bitch,” Altair said. “Who does she think she is? Why would I do some stupid, demeaning bet just to-- Honestly.”

Desmond snorted. “Just shut up and ask her what the bet is.”

“Fuck her,” Altair snapped. He shoved the phone into his jacket pocket and sneered at the proper-looking-English-lady getting offended over poor language. “I’m not a performing monkey. I’m not going to just do stupid shit she thinks of!”

Desmond didn’t believe him in almost the same way Altair couldn’t even believe himself. He was at least polite enough to not say anything about it while Altair glowered at his own feet. Minutes dragged by while the extraneous sound of the waiting room around them continued on. And then Desmond said, “you only have like five minutes until boarding starts.”

“Shut up,” Altair said. “I know.”

“Ok.” And Desmond was even nice enough not to watch him send a message back to Sass. 

 


	32. Chapter 32

> **Malik**
> 
> Why is he reading Twilight?
> 
> I don’t know why you think I’d know.
> 
> ”if its worth knowing about me Sass probably knows”
> 
> Are you reading the books too?
> 
> I try very hard not to read trash.
> 
> Is this a bet?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> What is he getting when he wins?
> 
> He gets to ask me a question about myself.
> 
> You are a terrible person.
> 
> Thanks.

Kadar didn’t mean it as a compliment. Malik probably understood that it wasn’t meant to be a compliment and just didn’t care. (Or he did care but he was doing that thing where he pretended he didn’t.) Either way, the end result was that Malik was forcing Altair to read Twilight (and one assumed the following books) and Altair had agreed to the stupid plan and was proving that he was reading by filming himself reading the books. His facial expression while he read ran the gambit from bored-and-disinterested to actively-outraged and back again to a resting face of no particular emotion at all.

Malik didn’t have a highly developed sense of humor. He also thought that cheap fiction was a punishment from a higher power (that he didn’t even believe in) and that reading anything that didn’t meet his standards should be considered torture. There was no way Twilight wasn’t a punishment of some sort. 

“Hey,” Kadar said to Sailor when the cat climbed up onto his bed to meow for attention. “What stupid thing has he done now?” Kadar petted the kitten and Sailor purred at him as he wiggled up against Kadar’s belly and tried to shove his computer out of the way to get at his preferred sleeping spot on Kadar’s chest. “If you fall asleep on me I won’t get my homework done. If I don’t get my homework done I’ll get in trouble.” Sailor regarded this trouble with a shake of his little head before meowing again and settling down in a rounded ball of fluff on his chest. “I see you care as much as your owner.”

\--

son-of-no-one: ok but who actually finds Edward attractive? Hi I’m the creepy guy watching you sleep sometimes without your permission. (7h ago)

Im-not-drunk: @son-of-no-one, rude man. Just rude. (6h ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, why are you reading that shit? @BestofThree didn’t even read it. (5h ago)

BestofThree: @EzioAuditore, I did read it. I just read it quietly and never around you and your fat mouth. (5h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “@NotYourBrother, maybe @Sass-Badger could explain it” See I like the way you think. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, why is Edward considered romantic when he’s a creepy stalker that wants to eat this chick? (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, possibly because he’s a vampire and the audience this book was intended for view obsession as love and unhealthy levels of needy attachment as romantic (5m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, possibly because it’s a fantasy and not reality. I wouldn’t recommend emulating what you’ve read. (5m ago)

Sass-Badger: RT: “@NotYourBrother, have you even read these books? How qualified is your opinion?” You, sir, are a dick. But yes I just finished reading the stupid books. (3m ago)

Son-of-No-One: @Sass-Badger, you just finished reading all of them today? (2m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, Yes. I had a free morning. (2m ago)

Son-of-No-One: @Sass-Badger, I am simultaneously impressed and really annoyed to find this out. When are we going to have a chat about our favorite parts? (2m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, I’m free Saturday if you have actually caught up by then. (1m ago)

Son-of-No-One: @sass-badger, I will be. (1m ago)

Altair was at the coffee shop (without Desmond) because it was Lucy’s lunch break and she had been doing an extraordinarily good job avoiding him since he’d gotten back from Europe. Desmond had disappeared shortly afterward to hunt for a job and an apartment. The task made only somewhat difficult but the fact that everyone that ever stood in a grocery store aisle knew about his tragic past from the covers of the gossip magazines. Mama Maria had been working tirelessly to keep Desmond out of the press but the story was there nonetheless.

“Why are you here?” Lucy demanded when she found him sitting at one of the outside tables. It was mid-February with snow dusting across the ground and uncomfortable chill in the air that his coat was doing a moderately good job at fending off. If Lucy was aware that she sounded unnecessarily furious at him, she did not seem to care the least bit that he hadn’t done anything.

“I love coffee,” Altair said, “and I wanted to talk to you.”

“So you’re taking a few pointers from everyone’s least favorite vampire stalker?” Lucy sat in the chair opposite him, arms crossed over her chest, gloves shoved up under her arm pits and scarf pulled up almost to her ears. “That’s not acceptable in the real world.”

“No that’s—”

“Why are you reading those books anyway? If you were going to take a sudden interest in reading, you could have picked something worth reading.” Lucy looked at him without blinking, a solid-accusing stare that seemed to be trying to convey some misdeed on his part. (Altair took a brief inventory of his recent decisions and tried to work out if any of them would offend Lucy on principle or on a personal level and failed to find any save for taking Desmond away from her.)

“They were a suggestion,” Altair said. One that was far better than that week he had to shave his legs and wear skirts. Reading a series of books was only moderately embarrassing even if it were a series about some overly ridiculous sparkling vampires. “But I wanted to ask you—”

“You’re just going to keep ignoring me?” Lucy interrupted (again).

“What?”

Lucy sighed and tipped her head to give him that look of utmost sympathy. Then she said, “why are we friends?”

There wasn’t a lot that Altair knew about women (because his experience with them was fairly limited to the scary relatives he had or the women who agreed to have sex with him) but he could recognize an unwinnable death spiral when he saw one. Whatever was bothering Lucy, whatever point she had to make, there was absolutely no way for him to escape until it was made. His only options were to make it as difficult for her as possible (his favorite) or to play along until he could escape. “I think it’s mostly because you want me to help convince Desmond to dick you.”

There was a mild decrease in noise following that statement. All of the universe came to a short standstill to politely wait to see if Lucy would find him to be funny or if she was going to leap across the table and strangle him. (Altair believed she would, one hundred percent.) Her sour frown broke with a twitch of amusement at the edge of her lips. The severity of her stare didn’t loosen much as she licked at the quirk of an almost smile at crease of her mouth. “Fair enough. My girlfriends, those people I was friends with before I met up with you rich jerks tell me that I’ve changed. They say that my priorities aren’t the same anymore. I had a three hour argument about how I’m acting lately. One of them asked me if I was fucking you to get a paycheck. I didn’t realize we were fucking at all. But apparently, that’s what everyone thinks. I’m also an attention whore that thinks I’m better than them because I know rich people.” She rolled her eyes. ‘You’re no prize.”

“Sorry,” Altair said.

“What the fuck are you sorry for?”

Altair huffed. “That’s what happens. That’s always been what happened. I had this friend in middle school—it was a public school because I failed my private school education the first semester and Mama Maria told me if I was going to act like an idiot I could go to school for free—that didn’t really belong with a lot of the wealthy kids that went to that school. He was a cool kid though and I really liked hanging out with him. As it turns out, he got beat up by some kids because they figured he was sucking up to me for money. I mean—I did buy him some stuff because he didn’t have it and I wanted him to be able to play Pokemon with me, right? What did I know? I could buy anything I wanted.”

“Why would they beat him up?”

Because people were mean. “He had a black eye and they bruised up his ribs, I mean it was bad. I was so angry about it that I was going to get the lawyers to sue and Mama Maria to storm the school and demand everyone involved get expelled. But he said, they beat me up because of you. So leave me alone. I don’t want to be your friend anymore. I didn’t get bullied a lot. Even if it wasn’t commonly known that I was rich—which it was—I had Ezio and Federico that used to pick me up after school.” (Lucy sneered at the mention of Federico’s name.) “Yeah I know you hate him. But meet him in person, he’s big, muscled and mean. One look at my big cousin in the slick mafia suit and nobody came anywhere near me with ill-intent.”

“I still don’t get why they beat up the kid because you bought him a game boy,” Lucy said. 

“Same reason they think you’re fucking me for money,” Altair said. “That’s just what happens. So I’m sorry. But fuck them. You know who you are.”

Her expression and body language shifted from guarded to an annoyed sprawl of limbs. “Well, it’s not that simple. They are my friends—or I thought. I don’t know. What did you want?”

The nature of Lucy’s anger made his proposition somewhat less easy to say. “Well,” Altair said. “I was going to invite you to California if you think you could get a week off work. I thought it’d be fun for you to meet Federico in person and I’m sure Ezio’s show would pay you something for showing up and fighting with your new mortal enemy.”

“Well, that is remarkably bad timing,” Lucy said. Her smile was stressed far more than it was relieved. She picked at something stuck to the cast iron table they were sitting around and then sighed. “Can I think about it?”

“Sure,” Altair said. “Desmond is going. I don’t know how that factors into your decision making. But he is going.” 

“Yeah, well,” Lucy looked at her watch, “I’ve got to get back to work.” Then she got up and went back inside, head ducked down against her chest the whole way.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Happy birthday.
> 
> Here I thought you’d forgotten.
> 
> Long day. Woke up late, class, library, etc and so on
> 
> What did Mom make you for dinner?
> 
> We made hummus.
> 
> I hate you
> 
> It was really good. She actually let me get a store cake this year.
> 
> She didn’t even complain about soulless pre-made food.
> 
> I think after 17 years I’ve worn her down.
> 
> I can’t imagine why.
> 
> Couldn’t have to do with the sobbing fits you throw every year over cake
> 
> What did it have on it?
> 
> Spiderman.
> 
> That seems very appropriate for a 17 year old
> 
> Yup. Why were you late waking up?
> 
> Stayed with Leonardo last night.
> 
> Of course you did. I’ve got to go to bed. 
> 
> You should respond to the people calling you names over calling me a dick, btw.
> 
> If I start explaining myself now I’ll never stop.
> 
> But I should probably say something

It was too damn late at night for Malik to still be awake. Or it wasn’t but his level of exhaustion made it feel like it was. That must have been why he was lying in his bed with his headphones in, watching the videos of Altair reading fucking Twilight making weird faces and scoffing noises every-so-often. It was high-quality entertainment (must have been considering the hit count) and even more impressive than the occasional outburst demanding an explanation of the crap in the book was the comment section protesting their love and hatred of the novel.

Malik wandered from there to his twitter and scrolled through the comments calling him out on naming NotYourBrother as a dick (because Kadar was and it seemed like Malik was the only person who knew that). Most of them called him a hypocrite for constantly lecturing Altair about being polite and then calling someone he didn’t know a dick for the smallest of infractions. He frowned at them and went back to watching Altair who was reading the end of Twilight, sprawled out on his couch without a shirt, slouching into the plush cushions looking comfortable and _normal_. (And _endearing_ in a way that made Malik acutely lonely.)

\--

Sass-Badger: RT: “@GuyFawkes23, @Sass-Badger, that’s a peculiar condemnation from a person who espouses patience, acceptance and polite manners,” I acknowledge that it does appear to be an unacceptable interaction (45m ago)

Sass-Badger: however, @NotYourBrother and I have known one another for a long time now. He understands my intention and is not offended. (45m ago)

NotYourBrother: @Sass-Badger, if you are allowed to call me a dick does this mean I can call you a bitch? (40m ago)

Sass-Badger: @NotYourBrother, well fair is fair. (34m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @NotYourBrother, that means that you cannot. (30m ago)

NotYourBrother: @son-of-no-one, oh did you get a secret decoder ring too? (30m ago)

Son-of-no-One: @NotYourBrother, just got it in the mail this week. Suddenly, everything is starting to make sense. (29m ago)

Sass-Badger: @NotYourBrother, @son-of-no-one, oh good, the two of you can form the least amusing secret society ever. Incorrectly translating the statements of others. (25m ago)

son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, @NotYourBrother, we will also have the most elite and secretive code names ever. So that nobody will suspect I am an orphan or that he is your brother. (23m ago)

NotYourBrother: @son-of-no-one, WHAT HOW DARE YOU ACCUSE ME OF THAT. (How did you know?) (23m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @NotYourBrother, I’m a genius. (21m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, or you are capable of logical thought. (19m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, that too. But I do have a genius level IQ. (15m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @son-of-no-one, a fact that continues to piss off everyone that’s ever met you (12m ago)

Son-of-no-one, @shirley-templar, people don’t need more reasons to be pissed at me. I think it’s a coincidence (9m ago)

Lucy wasn’t acutely angry but festering in anger like a blood-spotted bruise. Tender to the touch and aching. Desmond wasn’t sure what to do to make her feel better because she was avoiding him whenever she could conceivably manage it. (Odd, considering the long conversations they’d had the whole time he was gone up to the last day or so.)

By Thursday the week after he got back, Desmond couldn’t stand the stagnant silence of his apartment anymore. The quiet was abrasive to his fragile sense of well-being. It wouldn’t do any good to ambush Lucy so he simply waited until she crept out of her room to find something to eat. She came into the kitchen and found him finishing up dinner (all part of his plan that worked out perfectly).

“Hey,” he said. He handed her a plate that she took with a loose grip. “So, I miss you. What happened and how do we fix it?” He moved the pan from the hot burner to a cold one and leaned against the counter next to his stove. “Did I do something?”

Lucy sighed, set her plate on the table and shook her head. Her hair was hanging around her face giving her a strangely vulnerable look. Her hands were tucked into the pockets of her flannel pajama pants (that looked like something that he thought were his once upon a time). “Do you think I’ve changed since we met?”

“I didn’t know you before we met.”

“That’s not helpful, Desmond.”

Desmond shrugged. “It’s true.”

“So I told Altair that my friends think I’m a gold-digging whore now. Also that I’m pretentious and full of myself because I have famous friends. His response was fuck them and that I know who I am.” (Which sounded remarkably mature considering it was Altair that said it.) “The thing is I don’t know who I am. I left home because I knew I didn’t want to be who my Mom and Dad thought I should be, I left the Air Force because I didn’t like the person I was becoming, I went to school to figure out what I did want to be and I didn’t even make a choice to stop going but just didn’t sign up for classes one semester. I work at a coffee shop and I happened to meet you and what am I now?”

“How old are you?” 

“Twenty four,” Lucy said.

Desmond nodded. Then he cleared his throat. “Two things. One of them is only important if you are serious about us,” the very word was awkward in his throat. “You are twenty four, you have all the time left in your life to figure out who you are and what you want. As far as I can tell you have done a good job discovering yourself thus far and there’s no reason to think that you won’t keep doing a good job of it. Don’t let someone’s cruel words derail you.”

“That’s a lot harder than I thought it would be,” Lucy said.

“Yeah, I know,” he didn’t even mean it with any weight but Lucy’s eyebrows flinched in a mask of anger-and-embarrassed hurt like she hadn’t even considered his experience with the matter. Her mouth was half-open to apologize when he cut her off by saying, “the other thing is: my life won’t ever be entirely private again. This family is out there to be seen and judged by anyone that feels like they have the right. If you stay with me, you are staying with all of this. Altair and cameras and jerks on the internet and in real life that feel like they have the right to say whatever they want about you. That is just what it is.”

Lucy put one of her hands on the edge of the counter and tipped her head to look at him with narrow eyes. “Is there going to be an ‘us’, Desmond?”

“There _is_ an us,” he said. “The fact that I’m terrible at intimacy, haven’t ever had a meaningful relationship with anyone, and have recently been more depressed than I have ever been before notwithstanding, you are amazing and I love you. I’m just scared.”

“Yeah,” Lucy said, “me too.”

So they stood there nodding at one another and their mutual fear. 

“But, you know what makes me feel better?” Lucy said.

Desmond had some idea what she was going to say but he wasn’t about to hazard a guess and be wrong. “Calling people names?”

“Don’t be cute,” she said before she reached forward and grabbed him by his belt loops. “You just said you loved me. You know exactly where this is going. Speak now or forever hold your peace.” There was a thirteen-second silence before she dragged him through the apartment to her bedroom. 

\--

son-of-no-one: how long does one have to keep their new year’s resolution until one can drop the pretense and move on? (25m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I’m just asking because I miss sex. (23m ago)

Malik didn’t miss sex nearly as much as Altair missed it because Ezio’s show was on Wednesday nights and Leonardo was apparently really, really attracted to handsome Italian men with too much time and long wavy hair. On one hand, Malik thought he should be ever so slightly offended to be used as a living sex doll but on the other hand, he had made use of Leonardo’s proximity and skill at sex to deal with his own frustration over Altair’s increasingly attractive body.

Still, Ezio annoyed him. The man smiled far too often and with too much charm to be tolerated. 

In fact, Malik very much enjoyed sex but did not have to worry over having the opportunity to miss it. Sex had delayed him from making it to the bookstore on time so Leonardo had driven him. That ended with Sofia and Leonardo circling one another like sharks while Malik sat in the fiction section with his back against the romance-shelf and a stack of books to his side trying to work out which ones were most likely to interest Sofia. Her tastes were fickle and devoted primarily to characters that underwent meaningful transformations. But small things seemed to annoy her most of all and he’d yet to find a truly good book for her the way she had found so many for him. 

“You do not look much like a genius,” Sofia said. “You look much more like a druggie or a hippie.” She was looking at Leonardo’s stringy hair and the stretched-out length of all of his limbs. He was thin (but very strong, something that was shocking when you hadn’t seen him lifting full grown men like they were feathers) and his clothes were ill-fitting. 

“That helps me lower people’s expectations of me. Lowered expectations mean I am still able to do whatever I want with my own life,” Leonardo said. “But I am a genius. I also have an eidetic memory.”

“Truly?” Sofia asked.

“Yes,” Leonardo said. “Are you going to ask me to prove it to you?”

“If you would be willing to do so,” Sofia said. She picked a book at random and held it out to him. “Read these two pages and we will go get a cup of coffee, then you can tell me what it says.” 

Leonardo was obliging about it. He read the two pages, and folded down the page that he was asked to memorize before giving the book back. Sofia bought it and Malik bought the two books that he thought she’d like best out of the ones he’d found. They walked down to the coffee shop and ate dry pastries while they argued over whether or not reality TV was a tragedy.

“It is a sham,” Sofia said with finality. “There is nothing real about the shows that are produced. They may not be scripted in the most literal sense but they most definitely reflect a storyline the editors and producers want us to be involved in. Plus it is cheap!”

Malik agreed (more or less) that reality was trash entertainment but Leonardo objected with a near-shout of disapproval. “You are wrong!” he said. His arms were waving about in either direction. “If not wrong than looking at it in the wrong way. These reality shows showcase the lives of people who crave the spotlight they are given and their audiences are made of people who desire to see the daily, mundane lives of others.”

“What is mundane about Ezio’s life?” Sofia asked. “You have not sold me on this. I will not be swayed from my position. Books. Words. Stories that connect to us in a way that matters is worth something to me. Fast-food-reality-TV does nothing but pollute the brain.”

“Weren’t you supposed to recite those pages?” Malik asked before the two of them could start shouting classical quotes at one another. He wasn’t entirely sure why he felt like it was the most logical direction the conversation was going to go but they were both glaring and turning pink. 

“Yes, please,” Sofia said.

“I’ll tell you what the pages said in whatever language you want, or two of them but you have to come to my place and watch an episode of the show with me. You cannot condemn what you have not yet seen.” 

“English first,” Sofia said. “Then Italian if you know it.”

“He does,” Malik said. He took a drink and watched Leonardo show off for Sofia’s amusement, thinking the whole time that he’d never actually been the dumbest person in a group before.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> You dickface!
> 
> What did I do?
> 
> I haven’t even posted anything today.
> 
> No don’t pretend to be innocent
> 
> You cannot tell me that you aren’t the reason Altair is suddenly celibate
> 
> ”New Years Resolution” I bet that was all his idea
> 
> Are you being paid to defend him?
> 
> Or to make my life difficult?
> 
> No I provide you with frequent reality checks free of charge
> 
> It was our mutual idea, actually.
> 
> Except you are having sex and he’s not
> 
> Did you happen to mention that to him?
> 
> I don’t understand what your problem with this is.
> 
> I’m not keeping him from having sex.
> 
> How is that denial working for you?
> 
> You might need to upgrade to a newer version
> 
> I am not keeping him from having sex, Kadar.
> 
> He is his own person.
> 
> I’m sorry he wore skirts for a week, he’s reading Twilight
> 
> He’s also just coincidentally not having sex with anyone
> 
> None of that has to do with you
> 
> Is there a point here?
> 
> The point is you have every advantage here.
> 
> You know who he is. You know the power you have over him.
> 
> What you are doing is mean-spirited
> 
> Either you’re doing it on purpose because you’re a jerk or you’re in denial about how the idea of him having sex with other people makes you jealous.
> 
> Either way, stop it
> 
> It’s not fair
> 
> I’m not doing anything. I have nothing to apologize about.
> 
> He is an adult. 
> 
> He is capable of making his own choices. End of conversation.

Mother was finishing up sweeping the kitchen when Kadar howled an aggravated sound and slapped the phone down on the table hard enough he should have been concerned about its screen. (He wasn’t, presently, concerned.) He had been on his way to take the cat litter out to the trash when Malik finally responded to his accusations and it was exactly the sort of bullshit his brother would say.

“What has your brother done now?”

“He has a fundamental inability to understand his own emotions and intentions. It’s just really aggravating,” Kadar said. “What even happened to him that he can’t figure out anything? He can pick apart anyone but himself. He can lecture and nag and explain anything but what he’s feeling himself?”

Mother dumped the dustpan into the trash and then put the broom back in its place. She dusted her hands against her skirt before speaking. “Your brother does know what he is feeling. He is acutely aware of his own feelings and his own motivations. He has the ability to be completely honest with himself about everything. When he has examined himself and found himself lacking he believes that he is capable of removing those things that do match with an idealized version of himself by ignoring them. If that does not work, he will actively punish himself for his failures.”

“If he knows,” Kadar says, “why does he act like he doesn’t?”

“Shame,” Mother said. “For a boy who is very intuitive, you have a great deal of trouble attributing weaknesses to your own brother. He is just as confused as you are, Kadar. He is just much more skilled at pretending he isn’t.” 

“Well. I don’t care what he does to himself. It’s when he’s being ignorant about what he’s doing to other people that it annoys me. How does he not understand that he’s so impossible to ignore that people have no choice but to listen to him when he speaks and he’s so impossible to please that someone could conceivably spend their entire lives trying to gain his approval?” It didn’t occur to Kadar until Mother was frowning at him that he was complaining about a serious issue that he couldn’t explain with any satisfaction. It was verging onto the territory of having to lie to cover up Malik’s secret blog or having to reveal the secret. He snapped his mouth shut and took in a deep breath. Then he let it out again. “It’s not serious. He just frustrates me sometimes.”

“Patience,” Mother said. But she knew as well as Kadar that he wasn’t explaining something to her.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
> TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I am surprised both that you have finished reading the novels with such dedication and that you have stuck to your resolution. As you’ve read the books, you get to ask your question (preferably here and not in a more public domain). You may not be feeling charitable toward me given my demand that you do a bet just to ask me something, but I was wondering why you’re sticking with this resolution. I had assumed that it was mostly just stress making you doubt your sex life.

Altair was alone when he got the e-mail. His clothes were spread out across his bed as he tried to work out what he wanted to take to have this confrontation with his cousins. Ezio sold it as a whole thing where they all got together for the first time since they had their fight. It was a necessary catharsis (so Ezio said, but he also wanted ratings for his show).

So there was nobody around to dull the reaction into an over-reaction. If he’d had an audience he could have cursed at his phone and called Sass names but he was alone. There was nobody to care but himself. He sat on the edge of the bed and rubbed his hand through his hair. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> So I went to London to see my Nan because while I was playing dress up for you in January, my cousin said she really liked my eyes and asked me if one of my parents had eyes like mine. The truth is I know nothing about my parents. My screen name is both a reflection of my last name translation and the fact that I am literally a child of nobody. My parents are ghosts and I feel no connection to them. I don’t usually get upset about it because it’s hard to imagine a life other than the one that I’ve always had. Until someone asks me if I have my Mother’s eyes and I can’t answer because I don’t even remember what she looks like.
> 
> But what happened was I met a woman there that thought I was everything sinful and she was beautiful inside and out. She might not have thought much of me but she took time to teach me things that some part of me feels like my Father might have meant to tell me. She talked to me about flowers—that’s something that I do know about. And I even if it was momentary and shallow, I thought to myself that I could love this woman. You know? I didn’t want to just have sex and leave but listen to her talk and have conversations that mattered with her. I wanted to know the things she had to teach me. 
> 
> Then there’s you. You, the annoying fucking person who one day decided that having sex with me gave you the right to come into my life and demand I make something of myself. The hatred I had for you cannot be overestimated. I hated you so completely and utterly that if I had met you then I could not have kept myself from spewing stupid slurs in your direction. You are stronger, by far, than I thought you were when we ‘met’ the first time. You’ve withstood the faceless hatred and the endless commentary on your motivations. You haven’t asked anything of me that is unreasonable (with skirtweek being a noticeable exception) but nagged and pestered and annoyed me into realizing that I am unhappy in my own life. There are things about myself that I detest and nobody else cares. It’s very easy to convince yourself you don’t need to try when everyone is making allowances for you. 
> 
> But you are a phantom. You’re a voice on the internet, devoid of physical form. I cannot touch you or see you or imagine how you sound when you disapprove of me. You’re air. So explain to me why the fuck I care so much about what you think of me? Explain to me why I’m so angry at you asking why I kept a resolution that I don’t really care about? Explain to me the black jealousy that is choking me to death because I know you’re asking because you’ve already given up the resolution?
> 
> That’s not my question. What shampoo do you use? That’s my question.

Malik could be intentionally malicious when the situation called for it but he preferred not to be. He wasn’t alone but sitting in a library trying to get himself interested in history he didn’t care about when he got the stupid e-mail. He managed to pack all his crap back into his bag and get out of the library without making some kind of fool for himself. He was outside, sitting on a bench in the little snow-covered grassy area with the cold seeping in through his unbuttoned coat, trying to work out what time it was where Kadar was and deciding it didn’t matter. He called his brother because there was nobody else that would understand. (Nobody else that would gloat as much either, probably.)

“I’m in school,” Kadar hissed at him. He had the distinct sound of having rushed to hide in a bathroom, the clack and slap of stall doors around him a echo through the phone. “This had better be important enough to get me suspended.”

“You were right,” Malik said. “I’m an asshole. I hate the idea of him touching other people. I’d rather he be miserable and rather his cock shrivel up and fall off than have to deal with the idea of him touching someone else. I hate a woman I’ve never met because he might have been capable of feeling any kind of attachment for her that went beyond the magnetic pull between his dick and her vagina and there’s nothing I can do about it, Kadar. There’s nothing to do with this. I’m a fucking man and he’s a homophobic dick head.”

“Yeah,” Kadar whispered. “Well, there is something you can do.”

“I don’t want to,” Malik said. It was anger (not hurt) that made his voice sound so wet and raw.

“You have two choices,” Kadar said quietly. “Tell him who you are and let him decide what to do with that information or just be his friend.”

“He’ll hate me,” Malik said.

“Well, right now probably. But you’ve got time to figure out why he’s so afraid of gay men. Just, do the right thing, Malik. I have to go.” Kadar hung up before Malik could form a reply (because he would get suspended if he got caught ditching class to make phone calls) and Malik was left out in the cold trying to work out what he wanted to do.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
> TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m really happy to hear that you found someone that you could connect to on more than a superficial level. The idea behind giving up casual sex was trying to find something more significant to attach us to another person. The fact that I have failed miserably at this grieves me. I am shallow, this I’ve discovered about myself. I like sex but I do not want the burden of a relationship beyond that. 
> 
> I could explain the feeling of choking jealousy to you but I do not think it would improve either of our situations any. I have not had many friends in my life, Altair. I’ve had almost none and you are as valuable to me as a friend as I hope I am to you. 
> 
> I use Suave waterfall mist shampoo. It’s cheap and effective and the smell is nice.

Desmond had a healthy well-fucked glow about him when he showed up with Lucy in tow at the airport. He didn’t have a protective, jealous hold over Lucy the way some man might have if they had a girlfriend as hot as Lucy was. Instead he was a sweetly-shy boy at her side, smiling at her when she spoke and she was a viciously possessive beast with her hands-and-arm and whole body staking her claim on Desmond.

“You’re disgusting,” Altair said. “You disgust me.”

“Poor precious baby,” Lucy said. “What can we do to help you feel better?”

Altair turned his phone off because he didn’t want to deal with anything now. He was going to California to put on a show of reuniting his family into something approximating happy again. Ezio would be a wonderful distraction from responsibility (and _disappointment_ ) and even if he weren’t, there were plenty of women there that knew Altair had money and his picture in magazine ads. 

“Am I supposed to fight Federico or not?” Lucy asked. She was asking Desmond, sitting in his lap with her arm around his shoulders while they waited for their plane. Her fingers were pulling at the hair on the nape of his neck and her free hand was rubbing over the hickey she’d left on his collarbone. 

“You can hit him but he won’t fight you,” Desmond said.

“There is an absolute policy on hitting women in the Auditore family. Unless a woman has a knife—”

“Or kicks you in the balls,” Desmond said. “There was that girl that kicked Ezio in the nuts when we were kids and Mama Maria grabbed him by the shirt collar and told him to go hit the girl because she was obviously—I forget the words she used. It was Italian. She was so angry that someone kicked him in the balls.”

“The more I learn about Ezio the more I like him,” Lucy said. “Did he hit the girl?”

“Yes. He punched her in the arm I think. She went crying to her Mother about it and Giovanni got involved when the parents came to complain. It was at one of Altair’s birthday parties.” Then Desmond looked at him and creased his eyebrows in concern. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Altair said. “I just hate airports.” It was an obvious, stupid lie but the two people with him were nice enough to let him get away with it for now.


	33. Chapter 33

coffee4college: met @FedericotheFirst today. 

EzioAuditore: I’m going to say it now before anyone else, @shirley-templar marry @coffee4college. Marry her immediately.

Desmond was informed (not asked) that they would be handling the most unpleasant part of their trip first. He was asked (but not outright told) that cameras would play an important part of the process. Altair hadn’t even managed to look ashamed by passing on that bit of information and had looked at the nice man who explained everything about the paperwork they were being asked to fill out (to give people permission to film them) with a dull look of extreme boredom.

The official reunion happened outside at the Auditore family home. A spread of food covered a long table out in the massive back yard. The party tables had been pulled out and spread out to afford everyone a seat and some personal space but clearly forced intimate interaction. Desmond had given up alcohol (he’d never actually taken it up) or he might have demanded to know where Altair had gotten his glass of liquor and the beer he was carrying loosely from his left fist. Instead, he was given the dubious joy of being a guest of honor. 

“How fucking big is this house?” Lucy whispered to him as she looked up at the Auditore home. She wasn’t sitting in his lap but he largely suspected that was because the chairs they had to sit in were not built in such a way to allow her to do it comfortably. Instead she was sitting next to him watching the assembled crowd of men with cameras, hired staff and relatives that came and went again while they were waiting for this farce to start in earnest. “How many people live here?”

“Three, I think. Mama Maria, Giovanni and Claudia. Ezio has a place and Federico bought a house when he got married. Just remind yourself that they have more money than anyone would ever need and everything gets easier to handle.” He considered trying to find Ezio and asking him what the point of this nonsense was but his half-intention was interrupted by a cluster of noise and the sudden appearance of Uncle Giovanni who rarely (if ever) managed to have time to attend to trivial family obligations like this. 

Giovanni was thin now but he hadn’t always been so slim. Desmond remembered him as a younger man, still thick with muscle barely contained under his fine-business suit. He remembered Giovanni out in the sun at Grandma’s house wrestling with his sons. His arms like a brawler’s as he fought off the healthy bulk of both of his children despite their repeated, insistent attempts to overcome him. He had gone gray with the death of his youngest son, turned solemn with quiet that never seemed to lift from his face. Slowly-but-surely he had thinned out and become brittle while his boys kept brawling one another without him. He was dressed in business casual, looking out of place among a crowd of lazy people in T-shirts and jeans (Lucy was wearing a dress, at least) as he crossed to where Desmond was sitting.

“Who’s that?” Lucy whispered.

There wasn’t time to do more than whisper his Uncle’s name before Desmond was on his feet, trying to straighten the wrinkles in his jeans. He didn’t smile at Giovanni but waited for whatever the man had to say. He kept his head up (not down) and tried not to slump his shoulders as he was inspected. 

“Desmond,” Giovanni said. He had a look of pinched-and-awkward indecision on his face before he said, “I’m sorry. I should have done more when it mattered to be sure that I was not being misled by a clever liar. I didn’t investigate for myself but rely on what I was told and that lack of judgment brought unnecessary pain to your life. Know that the matter has been dealt with.”

Lucy made an odd, choked sort of noise to the side. Desmond didn’t look at her but nod his head. “Thank you, Uncle Giovanni.” Then he held his hand out toward Lucy and she slid up to her feet and leaned in against his chest. “This is Lucy. She’s—uh—my girlfriend.”

“Hello,” Lucy said with absolutely no attempt at charm.

Giovanni took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “Hello,” he said. “I am Giovanni Auditore. It is a great pleasure to meet such an inspiring young woman. My daughter has told me many wonderful things about you.”

“All true,” Lucy said. 

“Please let me know if there is anything you need, Desmond,” Giovanni said. Then he excused himself and left the younger members of his family to make fools of themselves in front of cameras. Mama Maria was at the back door with open arms to wrap around her husband and sweet reassuring kisses across his cheek as a reward for a job-well-done. 

“Did he off your father?” Lucy whispered against the side of Desmond’s face. “Does he run a vast criminal underworld?”

Desmond hooked his arm around her and sighed at her pretty smile. “No. Giovanni is not affiliated with any mafia. If he killed my father, we’ll never find the body so it doesn’t matter. But I imagine what he meant was that he and Federico beat William up and sent him away in shame with an understood threat against showing his face ever again.” 

“Federico’s coming,” Altair said as he threw himself into a seat. “Look,” he held up the hand holding the neck of the beer (possibly not even the one from a few minutes ago) and pointed across the yard at how the cameras were all standing at attention. Claudia and Ezio were standing there now, twittering with excitement. 

Cristina came out first with the baby looking absolutely huge in comparison to how big he’d been in December. They were dressed to attend an important function (not a backyard get-together) with coordinating colors. Claudia made a show out of greeting them and Ezio took the baby with joy that was too genuine to be a show for the cameras.

Federico came out last, looking much the same as he’d always looked. Desmond was not furious or hurt or scared to see him. He wasn’t empowered to know that he defeated this man. He felt no satisfaction in the hesitation that slowed Federico’s footsteps. 

Lucy looked up at him. She was stepping out of her shoes as she said, “that’s Federico?”

“Yes,” Desmond said. 

Altair made a dark sound off to the sound—pleased and amused—just before he said: “kick him in the balls, Lucy.”

Desmond opened his mouth to tell her not to do it but Lucy was marching across the space between them. She was slim and short in comparison to Federico’s height and the definition of his well-earned muscles beneath his shirt. His hair was short now and his face was clean shaven (an infrequent state of affairs). He was working up some kind of greeting for Lucy.

“Hello,” Federico said.

“Hey,” Lucy said back, “I just got to get this out of my system.” Then she punched him hard enough that it threw both of them to the side. Lucy righted herself, kept her stance defensive and wary.

Federico turned away from her with one hand across his face and a litany of dirty curses barely breaking through his clenched teeth. Ezio was clutching Vincenzio in both hands while Claudia laughed loud-and-happy in direct contrast to the low-and-furious sound of Altair’s laugh. 

It was going to devolve (and fast) but Desmond didn’t have enough time to think through who he needed to stop before Altair was tipping the beer bottle up to empty it down his throat and throwing it over his shoulder. He got up out of the chair with all the loose-limbed carelessness of a drunk man. 

“You must be Lucy,” Federico was saying. 

Altair pushed Lucy to the side, grabbed Federico by the shirt, pulled him forward and smashed their heads together hard enough the resounding echo of it made every man behind the cameras flinch. Claudia shouted a wordless objection and Ezio all but threw the baby back at his Mother.

Federico couldn’t fight Lucy because she-was-a-girl but Altair was-a-man. 

Desmond sighed and sat back down in his chair. Federico roared at the pain in his head and went from attempting polite tolerance to injured-pride-violence in a split second. He hit Altair and Altair stumbled back. Lucy was knocked over by the flail of someone’s arm and Ezio was trying to get between his brother and his stupidest cousin. Altair picked up a serving spoon from the table he’d gotten knocked into and used it to hit Federico (and Ezio who was trying very hard to break the whole debacle up). 

Claudia was shouting at the whole mess of limbs in Italian and threatening to go get their parents. Desmond motioned toward the chair closest to him for Cristina to sit in. She smiled at him as she sat. 

“So is this better or worse than you imagined?”

Desmond shrugged. “Let’s wait and see who wins.”

At some point, Ezio went from trying to stop the fight to shoving Altair backward. Altair was many (many, many) things but most important was his stubborn inability to learn through repeated trials. Federico hit Altair when he was close enough and Altair hit him back.

Lucy got up from where she’d been knocked over. There was blood on her elbows that left smears across her white dress. She put her hair up in a quick pony tail before she waded into the fight. While the brawlers were used to fighting-hard-and-long they very rarely inflicted the most meaningful damage they could. Lucy cut into them with hard fists and feet and brought the fight to a groaning standstill. 

“Like I was saying!” Lucy shouted at Altair lying on his back on the ground as she held Ezio off to the side with her fingertips pressed all against his heaving chest, “You got what you deserved,” she said to Federico. “I consider the whole matter dealt with now.”

Federico’s face was bloody, his clothes were pulled askew but there was respect in the way he nodded his head. “Yes,” he said. 

Lucy dropped her hand away from Ezio. Then she looked down at Altair. “Get up,” she said to him, “go clean yourself up. Don’t come back.” Then she reached down and pulled him up by the arm. He went, head ducked and shoulders high, toward the house.

Federico straightened his clothes and came over to where Desmond was sitting. “She’s vicious,” he said.

“She’s assertive,” Desmond said.

“Yeah,” Federico said. “I’m sorry. It’s good to see you.”

Yeah, well. Desmond nodded. “Thanks. You should put ice on that,” he motioned at Federico’s whole face. That made his cousin half-smile at the notion as he touched the swollen areas on his own face. “Unless you aren’t worried about getting uglier.”

“I am already married,” Federico said. “My uses for a pretty face are limited.” Then he looked over at Ezio. “Go put ice on your face!” 

\--

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, your new paparazzi photos are not exactly flattering. I know for a fact your face is more attractive in person.

Son-of-no-one: @MariaThorpe, I wasn’t aware you had much interest in my photographs, Maria

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, I am pleased to see your personality shows no improvement.

The thing was that Malik was actively trying not to care about whatever it was that Altair was-or-was-not doing with his free time. He hadn’t gotten a reaction to the last mail he’d sent. It was common knowledge (thanks to the internet and the paparazzi) that Altair (Desmond and Lucy) were all out in California hanging out with the other cousins. The silence gave him time to do the things that he’d been slacking off on doing. (Like research. Research was important and he simply didn’t do enough of it.)

It also left him with a confused feeling of guilt that gnawed at his stomach whenever he took a break from trying very-hard-not-to-care to see what the idiot was doing. His twitter (the most reliable way to keep track of his mood) had been all but silent lately. The photographs that Maria was referring to were probably the series of pictures of Altair glaring at the camera, looking more insolent than normal (and somewhat drunk). On the one hand, it was above the call of arrogance to assume that Altair’s drunken behavior was because of Malik and on the other hand, it seemed almost like there was nothing else that would explain it as easily. 

That wasn’t what was supposed to happen because Altair had the fucking world on a fucking plate and he didn’t need anything. He should haven’t wanted-or-needed Malik (the way Malik shouldn’t have started wanting-and-relying-on hearing from the jerk) and it shouldn’t have mattered that they couldn’t be anything but friends. This whole stupid debacle started because Malik hated the asshole.

_Hated._

Now he was trying to jog off his guilt and working his way through the realization that he was scared-shitless because there was forty-maybe-fifty percent of him that wanted to tell Altair exactly why it was that they couldn’t be anything but people on the internet that insulted one another. (He kept thinking about how he’d phrase, ‘also I have a penis’ and it ended time-and-time again with Altair’s stupid shouting about how gay he wasn’t.) There was no answer, there was no way to work off his guilt, but Malik kept right on jogging anyway.

\--

> FROM: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> If you were waiting for him, you’re going to be waiting a long time. I don’t know what happened and it’s not necessary that I do know. I just wanted to offer that bit of advice.

Desmond smiled at the woman that was on her way out of Altair’s hotel room (at ten-thirty in the morning) as he was on his way in. She wasn’t smiling back which meant that whatever method Altair employed to dismiss her was offensive. (Because just asking them to leave didn’t occur to him, perhaps.) The room wasn’t destroyed which was encouraging, but Altair was laying in the bathtub in his underwear glaring at his phone which was not encouraging.

“How’s the binge drinking going?”

“Liver’s not crying yet,” Altair said. He didn’t look away from his phone.

“Were you going to put water in the tub?”

Altair pulled himself up so his elbows were hanging over the side of the tub and his phone dropped onto the pile of towels beneath it. His eyes looked weak (probably had a headache) and there were hickeys on his collarbone dark enough to be easily distinguished even at a distance. “If you’re going to lecture me, can we skip the preliminary lead in?”

Which translated roughly into, ‘ _you can talk but I will not be listening_.’ So Desmond just nodded his head and got back to his feet. “I’ve got nothing to say,” he said. “Do whatever you want. It’s never steered you wrong.”

\--

> ### Challenge Accepted #05
> 
> In order to view the image in question you will need to click here. When you click the link you will see Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad doing a fantastic job of displaying the many reasons one should not indulge in public intoxication.
> 
> 1\. You are drunk. Not only are you drunk but you are drunk _again_. In less than a week this is the fourth set of photographs of you stumbling your way out of some club or another with-or-without a female companion. While all young people are likely to experiment with alcohol and drugs, I would like to point out that you are not _experimenting_ but _drowning_ yourself in liquor at this point. You are being _stupid_.  
>  2\. Your pants are not buttoned. I could award you the benefit of the doubt and assume that you managed to get laid even if the look on your face leads one to believe that you have far surpassed the blood alcohol limit that would allow your penis to attain an erection but I’m not feeling charitable. You obviously just forgot how to work the button on your pants.  
>  3\. There is another bruise on your face. Either you were in another fight or you fell over because you were drunk. If you were in a fight, you should be ashamed of yourself. If you fell over, you deserved it.  
>  4\. You should have enough respect for yourself to attempt to maintain some kind of self-care. What you are doing hurts your own body more than it hurts anyone else around you. If you continue on this present course, you’re going to wake up with another stupid tattoo.  
>  5\. Learn how to cope, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad. Take up a hobby that doesn’t involve imbibing.
> 
> * * *
> 
> **Tagged:** _contains links, I: drinking (alcohol), I: inappropriate public displays, I: clothes malfunction, I: emotional immaturity, I: grow up, F: Challenge Accepted, W: god damn it, Altair._  
> 

Kadar hissed at his computer screen while Sailor tried to catch the dangling strings from his hoodie. Malik’s anger was a confusion of intent in the post. “This is a mess,” Kadar said to the cat. “This is a huge mess.”

\--

son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, “I: grow up” You first. (1h ago)

Coffee4college: It makes me sad when @sass-badger and @son-of-no-one fight. (56m ago)

NotYourBrother: @coffee4college: Trust me when I say the situation is far direr when @Sass-Badger isn’t fighting someone. (55m ago)

Coffee4college: @notyourbrother, that’s encouraging, I think. (51m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @notyourbrother, good to know she’s a bitch to everyone. (48m ago)

NotYourBrother: see now, you can’t see things like that, @son-of-no-one (47m ago)

Sass-Badger: @notyourbrother, leave it alone. There’s no point in arguing with insolent little boys. (41m ago)

GuyFawkes23: @Sass-Badger, did you have a disagreement over the most intriguing part of the Twilight series? (34m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @guyfawkes23, as it turns out that, too, was nothing but empty teasing. (30m ago)

Having sex with Lucy had possibly been the best decision that Desmond had ever made. Not only was it fantastic but it had segued almost immediately into Lucy abandoning all attempts to maintain wearing a socially-acceptable level of clothing. She walked out of the shower wearing a pair of panties and drying her hair, looking delightfully attractive. The scrapes on her elbows were the only truly noticeable blemish on her whole body. “At what point,” she said as she worked to towel her hair dry, “do you get involved with Altair’s downward spiral?”

Desmond’s entire adult life felt like it was made of trying to figure out the best answer to that question. He couldn’t even pretend that he wasn’t watching the twitter brawl unfold either because he had been. “Are you saying you don’t trust Sass can handle this?”

“I’m saying it’s a little early in the relationship for Altair to be unleashing the full brunt of his immature arrogance on her.” Lucy threw the towel over the back of a chair and came to sit next to him on the couch. “Also I’m worried about the little idiot. Is this about Sass?”

Well, there wasn’t a lot of things left in the world that moved Altair to any level of emotion. Sass—whoever she was in real life—had managed to dig her way under Altair’s skin and irritated him like an itch that couldn’t’ be reached. Desmond sighed. “I think he asked for something she wasn’t willing to give him. I don’t think there’s anything we can do about that but wait it out. She’ll either handle it or she’ll walk away.”

“She can’t walk away,” Lucy said.

“Why?”

“Because she loves him,” Lucy said. Then her hand was slipping down in between his legs with a smirk of pride-and-ownership on her face. “Mr. Miles, what is in your pocket?” She moved to straddle his lap in one smooth motion of her perfect-damn-body and he put his rough-skinned-hands on her smooth-smooth back as she kissed him.

\--

Sass-Badger: fine. (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, let us have a discussion about your favorite parts of this ridiculous book. (9m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, why not? How about I guess your favorite part? Oh, let me think—wait. I got it. None of it. (8m ago)

Son-of-no-one: the great and terrible @Sass-Badger the ultimate bitch behind the curtain didn’t enjoy a single line of the entire trilogy of books! (8m ago)

Son-of-no-one: And much like the rest of her unhappy species @Sass-Badger looks down her nose at a series of novels that aren’t meant to entertain her while she reads fat classics and moody independent novels (7m ago)

Son-of-no-one: She sits alone and despairs over the fate of the world because she’s better than everyone. God forbid anyone should find something entertaining. (7m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger harbors the notion that if more people were like her: dry, categorically unhappy and morally superior that all the world’s problems would be fixed. (6m ago)

Son-of-no-one: the truth is you’re a sad, lonely, bitchy slut that assures herself she is perfectly happy so as long as she can quantifiably prove she’s better. (5m ago)

Kadar’s heart had started throbbing in his chest at the second-or-third line and by the end his fists were so tight around the edges of the laptop that he was sure if he moved them an inch he would be pounding them into the keyboard. It wasn’t (was it?) his fight but he was gritting his teeth hard enough to taste blood between his teeth.

His phone went off next to his thigh and it was only and desperate attempt at maturity that made him look at it before he started forming a reply. Malik sent him one single word and it was:

_Don’t._

\--

Sass-Badger: Allow me to correct your mistakes, @son-of-no-one. (12m ago)

Sass-Badger: My favorite part of Twilight was not an event but the character Jasper. (12m ago)

Sass-Badger: I read science fiction, historical fiction and biographies primarily. Recently, I’ve also been persuaded to take up reading Harlequin romance novels for a change of pace. (11m ago)

Sass-Badger: I read alone because I can’t concentrate when there is excessive noise. (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: I have never attempted to quantifiably prove that I am better than anyone. I rely on subjective not objective methods. (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: You did get something right, however, Altair. I am a slutty bitch. (9m ago)

Sass-Badger: I’ve simply run out of time to deal with you tonight. I have a date with a friendly attractive man where I’m going to talk about fat classics and suck dick. (8m ago)

Altair wasn’t alone. He wasn’t _allowed_ to be alone right now. There was no official word passed down to him from the higher-ups (that was, his Aunt and Uncle) but his helpful Italian cousins had closed ranks around him in a protective net that kept him from making a greater fool of himself than necessary. Instead being allowed to go out to a club, get drunk and have his picture taken again, he was caged in the old game room of the Auditore mansion listening to Federico and Ezio argue about playing pool.

The tweets came in quick succession. 

Altair reacted in the only possible manner: he threw his phone into the wall. The screen cracked and he reached over his head to where the stand of pool cues were and proceeded to beat the stupid phone to pieces. When he was one, the silence in the room was as pronounced as his fast-heavy-hard pants of breath. Every part of his body felt out of his control and his hand twitched in his grasp around the pool stick. 

“Shouldn’t we get Desmond?” Federico whispered to Ezio.

Ezio slapped his brother in the chest but he didn’t disagree with him. “What happened?” Ezio asked.

Federico changed the way he was holding his own pool cue so that it was in front of him reading to fend off any attacks. “He threw his phone into the—” But Federico didn’t get to finish the sentence because Ezio shoved him toward the door with a slithering command that he should go find Desmond (who was showing Lucy around the old family home). Federico threw his pool cue on the table and left with a sneer of disapproval about everything.

“What happened?” Ezio asked again.

Altair looked at the pieces of his phone and threw the stupid pool stick on the floor. There was simply no explaining what had happened to Ezio because it was embarrassing (at best) and mortifying (at worst) so he climbed over the slouching easy chairs that separated him from the pool table and headed for the door.

“You know why we call you the baby?”

“Because I am one,” Altair snapped back. He didn’t say to be reprimanded but headed for the front of the house. The path he took wasn’t the most direct one but it was the one least likely to lead him straight into Federico-or-Desmond. Despite this extra precaution, he ran face-first into Desmond standing outside the front door looking as casual as anyone could. “God damn it,” Altair said.

“Want to talk about it?” Desmond asked.

“I want her and I can’t have her,” Altair said. “What else needs to be said?”

Desmond either wasn’t expecting an answer he wasn’t expecting that answer because he looked honestly confused about how to proceed. The expression was there and gone again. In its place was genuine sympathy that was even more obnoxious. “You’re impatient. If you’re serious about this, about this woman, you aren’t going to win by throwing fits when something happens you don’t like. There has to be a reason that she hasn’t told you who she is. You don’t have to understand those reasons or even guess what they are but if you actually do care about her, you have to respect that they exist.”

“That’s bullshit,” Altair said. “How do I do that? How do I deal with this—this— _thing_? What am I supposed to do, just pretend like I don’t care?”

“No.” Desmond sighed. “No, you don’t have to pretend like you don’t care. I don’t know how you live with it, Altair. All I’m saying is that if your friendship with this woman matters to you, find a way to make it work.”

“That’s stupid.” Altair picked at the paint on the front door of the Auditore home and smacked the blunt side of his fist against it. “This whole thing is so stupid. How did this even happen? How did I get here? Why do I fucking care about this person?”

“Because she cares about you,” Desmond said. “So don’t drive her away.” Then Desmond clapped a hand on his shoulder and dragged him forward to hug him. It was becoming a sadly frequent event between the two of them. Altair didn’t even protest but hugged him back. 

“I broke my phone.”

“Yeah, I heard.”

“I have to go get a new one,” Altair said. 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> If you were employing the ‘agree with a bully to disarm him’ thing I have to say
> 
> That while the tactic most likely worked
> 
> You probably ripped this guy’s heart out with whatever stupid thing you said
> 
> And I was ready to skin him alive on your behalf
> 
> Because for a minute I forgot you weren’t my sister
> 
> And that you are basically the meanest person I’ve ever met
> 
> But taunting him with all the dick you’re getting is still pretty shitty.
> 
> On the other hand, the asshole got what he deserved.
> 
> Most importantly I hope that your Mother never finds out what you said on the internet
> 
> Mom is never finding out
> 
> Keeping secrets from Mom never ends well for you.
> 
> Point.
> 
> Fine, the day I marry Altair is the day Mom finds out about this.
> 
> Agreeing that I am a bitchy slut was not my worse decision of yesterday
> 
> What did you do?
> 
> I got stoned
> 
> Relaxing but inadvisable.
> 
> Do I want to know why it’s inadvisable?
> 
> Only if you want to know about the bite mark on my ass.
> 
> Nope.

Malik didn’t wake up in time to go to his classes. He didn’t become conscious enough to maintain a level of concern about his absence until it was far-far too late to do anything about it. In fact, by the time he managed to lift himself out of the foggy gray soup of his pleasantly lax body, he had only managed to care about the bruised-pain on his left butt cheek and how it made sitting and laying and standing slightly uncomfortable.

“What the hell did you talk me into last night?” Malik asked Leonardo when he returned from parts unknown. Leonardo was dressed and successful at life (probably attended all his classes) while Malik was disgusting and lazy and still in bed. His hair was matted to his head and his mouth tasted like ashy dirt with a side dish of nacho chips. “Did you bite me?”

“You asked me to. I recall your exact words were: bite my ass. So I did.” Leonardo stripped off his shirt before throwing it to the side and turned around to show off the bruised-in nip marks across his shoulders and the faint scratches that ran down his side. “I will not mistakenly give you the good brownies again. You mistook my skin for a type of food.” 

Malik rubbed his face with both hands and tried to sit up. Whatever manner of sex (or other extremely athletic activity) they had managed, his whole body was aching in the aftermath. He crossed his legs in front of him under the blankets and tried to summon up some sense of shame about the whole thing. “What other stupid shit did I do?”

“You ranted at me about how I shouldn’t fall in love with you,” Leonardo said. He sat on the end of his bed and crossed his legs so his knees knocked up against Malik’s. His smile was soft and sincere, the sort of smile that he’d always had (infinite with patience, one might say) even as he cocked his head to the side and said, “I do love you. I am not prone to fits of sentiment and I find a great deal of people that want my attention to be dull-witted and greedy. You’re one of the stupidest humans I have ever met.”

“Thank you, truly.” Malik rubbed his sore neck. “Should I assume that I’m semi-decent in bed since you’re still willing to put up with me?”

“You are amazing in bed,” Leonardo said. Then, “and I do love you. You are one of my sole, true friends that understands my attention is fickle and my time is precious. You do not think I’m wasting my life or potential and you actively treat me as if I were exactly the same as you. You are not awed or humbled by my intelligence or my talents. In fact, your own arrogance allows you to assume that we are equals and while that annoys me on some level, I find it deeply charming.”

“Yeah I get it, I’m an asshole,” Malik said.

“You aren’t an asshole. You are very fair minded. You detest yourself as much as you detest anyone else. You feel that you are as incapable of living up to your standards as anyone else. The fact that you have made it so far in life without lowering your standards or creating excuses for your own shortcomings is miraculous as far as I’m concerned. What you have to do now is learn to accept your own flaws and accept that other people—besides your brother and Mother—are capable of loving you.”

That was utter bullshit. Complete and utter bullshit. “I thought your hippie bullshit was supposed to say that I need to love myself.”

Leonardo sighed and shrugged. “You don’t even know who you are yet, Malik. This?” he motioned at the ruined bed and the bruises and scratches that they’d left all over one another, “is the first truly intelligent thing I’ve ever seen you do. Experimentation is key to our growth as humans.”

“Experimentation got me bit on the ass.”

Leonardo laughed. “Yes, but now you know that you do not like to be bit on the ass. Do not trouble yourself, Malik. Be patient and allow yourself the time and space to grow. If you are still this same miserable asshole in four years that you are today then I will not love you anymore. But you aren’t the same today as you were the day we met.”

“Because someone bit me on the ass,” Malik mumbled. Then he flopped back into the bed and groaned about the whole existence of the world beyond the blankets. “I’m going back to sleep.”

\--

> [Video starts with Altair putting the battery cover back on his phone. Sitting close by the camera in his hotel room with the unmade bed in the shot behind him. He is nicely dressed with a still faint bruise on his jaw.]
> 
> **Altair** : So.
> 
> **Altair** : I’m going to save Sass some time on this one since I’m pretty sure everyone in the world already knows what she’s going to say. I’m irresponsible, selfish, immature and reckless. Some variation on those things, I’m sure. I’m also a misogynist that is preoccupied with sex. I’m overly possessive of people and things that I have no right to possess and have need to get over myself. 
> 
> **Altair** : Most of that is true. [Altair sets his phone down and rubs his hand through his hair.]
> 
> **Altair** : Sass, I am sorry. I spoke out of anger and everything I said was intentionally to provoke a response out of you. I wanted to hurt you and I sincerely hope that I failed. Regardless of whether or not you were personally wounded by my comments, I _am_ sorry. You deserved better from me and I will—if you give me the chance—strive to prove to you that I am capable of behaving with more self-control that I showed yesterday.

Altair was not in the mood for Federico but it was hard to avoid him when they were all filming scenes of a semi-tolerant reunited family. The cameras were more interested in following around Ezio and Desmond but now and again they chanced upon Altair and men with no sense and clipboards wanted him to film confessionals and asked him stupid questions about how he felt about his relatives. They wanted him to talk about what happened ten-minutes ago and how he felt while Altair glared at them and gave single-word-answers.

Then there was Federico, idly stepping out into the sunny back yard with a drink in his hand and the air of a man who narrowly escaped a confrontation. While he did stop short in the periphery of Altair’s vision, he didn’t sigh loud enough to be heard. Instead he hesitated there before making an impatient motion with his head and continuing on forward to sit in the lounge chair at Altair’s right side.

“There’s no cameras here,” Altair said.

“You are fifty percent less likely to hit me without them,” Federico said. He set his drink on the wide arm of the chair and crossed his legs at the ankle. There was a dragging silence that summed up the entirety of their relationship. Federico was Ezio’s big-brother, useful only when someone was needed to ward off bullies and scare away the people that tried to take pictures of Altair when he was still a fat kid mourning his Grandmother. “Why Desmond?” Federico said finally. “Why him above all of us? I’m not asking because I don’t like the guy—I mean, as much as you can like someone who never tries to defend himself—why him?” Federico didn’t even look ashamed at the question. “Just listen to me. Grandma was lethal. I—Edward has this story that he used to tell us when we were kids about how Grandma would make Grandpa come to a big dinner on their anniversary where she would regale the guests with the story of his exploits. She effectively tortured this man, do you understand that? She took everything from him and when that didn’t satisfy her she humiliated him for her own amusement. She never gave an inch in her whole life. She got what she wanted no matter the cost and never apologized to anyone about it. So tell me how the only one of us raised from birth by _that_ woman prefers some—brooding, silent _victim_ above everyone else in the family.”

Altair shifted so he could look at Federico. He still had a mark in the center of his forehead from the original fight a week and a half ago. There were other marks from subsequent run-ins with one another but none of them were as impressive as Altair wanted. (Ezio hadn’t exaggerated when he warned against attacking Federico outright. The man was a bull and when he was fighting it was as if he felt no pain at all.) “Giovanni is a paper doll, Mama Maria is a dictator, you are a bully, Ezio is a class clown and Claudia is a deranged psychopath that can talk faster than anyone can understand. You are all loud. You are all demanding. You are a closed unit, there is no space for outsiders to infiltrate. There is no welcome in your home. You were complete before I came here. You were complete without me while I was here. I was a burden and I knew it. I followed Desmond because I thought—I thought he felt the way I did. Like your parents took me in because it was the socially acceptable thing to do with an orphan that nobody wanted.” Altair watched the tightening black emotion pinch at Federico’s face and thought it was almost more satisfying than hitting him had been. “Desmond is not a victim, Federico. Desmond has survived his father and your entire family without anyone’s help. He escaped on his own. He built a life _on his own_. There is no member of our family so much like the woman that raised me than Desmond fucking Miles. I am the spirit of her vengeance but Desmond is every bit of her perseverance.”

Federico snorted and then cleared his throat almost immediately after. “I didn’t mean to laugh.”

“There are no cameras but I’ll still hit you.”

“We didn’t want you,” Federico said. He didn’t even look ashamed about it. “I didn’t. Claudia didn’t. Ezio didn’t either but he had this thing about how we had to look after you. It was like adopting a fat baby bird that never stopped wailing. You were a burden that nobody wanted.” Federico shrugged. “Desmond was too. We are a complete family without you. All of that is true. Except for what you said about my parents. My Mother loved you. _Loves_ you. My Father thinks very highly of the man you are capable of becoming.” Then Federico sighed and leaned back into the chair. He crossed his arms behind his head and closed his eyes against the sunlight. “Desmond is the best of us. Still think I’d respect him more if he ever fought back.”

“You’re thinking of it wrong, Federico. Desmond won’t fight you because you’re not worth it.”

Federico did laugh then. He reached out blindly and smacked Altair on the back of the head. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Ok. Sounds reasonable. 
> 
> But since I’m here, stop fighting with your cousins. Stop drinking. You’re better than both of those stupid decisions.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  Ok. But how about this, every month I get to ask you something and you have to answer it. I get your restrictions. I won’t ask about what you look like or where you live. I mean, I get to ask and I don’t have to do anything to ‘earn’ it. It’s just a thing we do.
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  Thank you for the apology. For what it’s worth I’d like to apologize for being purposefully antagonistic. It is something that I find myself doing quite often and I promise myself I won’t behave that way the next time and always do. 
> 
> I might not convey to you that I understand the nature of your disappointment and that I share the same feelings of jealousy that you do. I let you continue on with a resolution that I’d already abandoned for purely selfish reasons. I am furious at the thought of you touching someone. I hate slogging through the internet’s gossip machine to find that you’ve been linked with another woman again and again. 
> 
> But this is the nature of our present predicament. Allow me to be perfectly clear with you about my inhibitions so that you are not misled. I don’t trust you. While our first encounter was memorable for many reasons—only a few of which were your fault—the things you chose to say and do following our meeting make you incredibly dangerous to my sense of security and well-being. If I were to tell you what you did, you would remember me (I feel) so I won’t elaborate there. Know only that you were very unkind and hurtful in such a way that gave me enough reason to spend my life trying to slander your name to all corners of the globe. 
> 
> However, my lack of trust in you is not unique. I don’t trust anyone. I don’t believe in anyone. I don’t currently have whatever it is a person needs to have in order to maintain any sort of intimate relationship. 
> 
> When I said that I value you as my friend I was not trying to limit our interaction to purposefully hurt your feelings. I meant to say to you that, a friend is the one thing I value more in my life right now than anything else. The men who occupy my bed are there and gone. I don’t even remember their names or anything physically remarkable about them once they leave my sight. They are more meaningless to me than all the women you’ve had sex with are to you. I have used every single one of them for my own gratification and dismissed them as stupid before the sweat even cooled from my skin.
> 
> I have three friends in this world. Then I have my very small family. Each of them is given only a small portion of the sum total of who I am as a person. That is all I can offer now.

Malik closed his laptop (after one in the morning, long after he should have been asleep) and set it to the side of his bed. He was _exhausted_ after a week (or almost two) of the nagging guilt and the _fear_ he’d only barely realized he was feeling. It was _awful_ to hinge his happiness (in part or with such totality) on another person. But it was. It existed. He’d managed to confuse himself into _caring_ and now he was smiling into his pillow because Altair was an idiot (whispering apologies to him) and somewhere in California where the moron was, he was thinking of _Sass_ (that-was-Malik). 


	34. Chapter 34

son-of-no-one: anyone else think that birthdays are a pain in the ass? (20m ago)

Son-of-no-one: what do you give the guy who doesn’t want anything? (20m ago)

Coffee4college: I know what I’m giving him. (15m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @coffee4college, does it involve sex? Because if it involves sex that’s really not helpful to me.(15m ago)

Coffee4college: I don’t know, @son-of-no-one, I think you would look hot in some lingerie. (13m ago)

Shirley-templar: no @son-of-no-one. Absolutely not. No. (7m ago)

Sass-Badger: I’m torn between encouraging @son-of-no-one for my own amusement and offering the sincere advice that wearing sexually provocative clothing for your cousin’s birthday is a bad idea… (6m ago)

Son-of-no-one: Don’t worry @sass-badger, it’s not that easy to get me into lady clothes. (1m ago)

Lucy laughed so hard she almost dropped her phone. The exertion on her face from their mad, uncoordinated dash through the park left her cheeks a vivid pink. Desmond was a ruddy-red color with a bright-red grinning smile as he rolled his eyes at them. He was being the sole intelligent adult out of their little group, stretching out his work-out-warmed muscles before the stilled. “You liar,” she said.

“I’m not lying. I wouldn’t wear lingerie. I don’t even understand why that’s something that people would find attractive on me. Have you seen my body? It’s lumpy and boxy and not pretty and smooth.” He wiped the sweat off his forehead onto his sleeve and tucked his phone back into its pocket so he could join Desmond in stretches.

But Desmond was caught in a standstill. He looked at Lucy and said, “wait. Is lingerie involved in my birthday present?”

“Only if you are very good,” she said. She blew him a kiss and Desmond smiled like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

\--

> ###  _March 8, 2008_ : Sexy Saturdays 008: just waiting on confirmation
> 
> I feel like Sass is only letting through the stories that feature Altair in a positive light. That makes me angry because he’s not a gentleman sex god that selflessly looks after women and assures them the best possible experience. This method of selection certainly makes him look good but it’s not a true reflection of events. This story probably won’t make it through the entry process but I’m going to try it anyway.
> 
> I’m a maid at a hotel. I’m used to people with an extraordinary amount of money forgetting that toilets don’t magically clean themselves. On a scale of 1-10, Altair scores a 12 for his dedication to remaining oblivious. That is to say that the man most likely believes that his living space remains clean through magic and/or has never taken a moment to wonder about it before. It is absolute infuriating that he doesn’t seem to realize that someone has to clean up after him. 
> 
> He is also very good looking. I met him after Sass convinced him to start improving his body. Since he has the habit of wandering around shirtless regardless of the fact that there is someone else in the room with him that doesn’t want to be harassed by his naked torso, I was constantly gifted with a showing of his work-in-progress body. I won’t deny that he is very sexually attractive. I won’t deny that he’s also very charming when he needs to be.
> 
> What I’m saying is one day, he discovers me in the hallway, wearing my uniform and starts a conversation with me about the restaurant downstairs. Somehow we ended up talking about local sports and the best places to eat decent food that isn’t served on chilled plates. One minute I’m telling him about my favorite bar and grill with the best nachos, thinking that this guy is really not that bad and the next—I honestly don’t know how—I’m dragging him into his hotel room. He didn’t even get completely undressed. I didn’t even get undressed.
> 
> He just pulled my panties down to my knees while I was bent over one of the big armchairs in his room. I didn’t see his penis but from the way it felt, it is exactly the sort of monster that everyone keeps alluding to in this stupid posts. Which I wasn’t told about before we had sex. 
> 
> The actual sex was hurried and rough. I didn’t orgasm while he was fucking him so he asked me if I wanted him to eat me out. I said he could and that—at least—was the most thorough and enjoyable single sex act I’ve ever experienced. Then he just disengages. It’s like he completely shut down his brain and reverts to the most base level of stupidity imaginable.
> 
> Not only did he not call me the right name—never mind I have a nametag that says my name—but he ignored me until I left. So later that same week, after I’ve gotten chewed out by my boss for disappearing in the middle of my shift, I see Altair again. He has his cousin Ezio with him. They are going down the hallway and Ezio stops to ask me if he could get extra towels while Altair looks confused. I hear them as they are going into Altair’s room and found out that Altair didn’t even know I was a maid. What did he think I was doing in the hotel wearing the uniform and a nametag?
> 
> The man is stupid. He’s unnecessarily rough and doesn’t actually care about the women he sleeps with.
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays, W: contains sexual content, W: Crude Language, I: reprehensible behavior, I: Memory Trouble_
> 
> • **son-of-no-one**  
>  I can’t help but feel that you were manipulated into posting this particular account. I also note that there is a new tag “reprehensible behavior” is that to address my obliviousness or the fact that I pretend like I don’t know women’s names so they will get angry and leave? I suppose it applies to either. On to the reason I am here. This woman’s name was Francine. She has dark hair, smells like rose water and has exceptionally strong thighs. I did, honestly, not know that she was a maid. However, I do realize that there are people who clean up after me on a regular basis. I try not to be a pig.  
>  • **Sass-Badger (Moderator)**  
>  “reprehensible behavior” is a reference to how you treat the women you have sex with. It seems the one thing that women appreciate you despite the methods you employ to be rid of them is how you perform oral sex frequently and “thoroughly”.  
> 

Malik had not been _talked into_ taking a spur-of-the-moment weekend trip with nothing but the clothes he was wearing when he showed up for the now-weekly book club meeting but _shanghaied_ by remorseless people. Sofia had announced her intention and Leonardo had enthusiastically agreed for the both of them. So there he was, standing awkwardly next Leonardo perusing pamphlets advertising nearby attractions while Sofia spoke to the clerk at the front desk about available rooms. 

“Ok,” she said, “just a minute.” She came over to stand by them, “there are two rooms. One of them is fifty dollars more than the other. So are we getting one big bed to share or a double room in which case you two still have to share.”

“Which one is more expensive?” Malik asked.

“Does the single bed have a spa tub?” Leonardo asked.

“How is that important?” Malik asked.

Sofia and Leonardo looked at him like he was stupid. Then Sofia said, “big bed it is.” She went back to the desk and got the room. The decision to get a single (king sized) bed provoked a raised-eyebrow but otherwise the clerk checked them in with a bored-looking-expression. They got their keys and went up the stairs to find their room. The view afforded them an excellent glimpse of the pre-dusk grayness of the small city they found themselves. 

“So are we going to find something to eat first or introducing Malik to the wonders of the spa tub?” Sofia asked. She laughed before he turned around and he missed whatever obscene gesture Leonardo must have made because the two of them were smiling with genuine innocence. “I didn’t mean to make that sound so sexual.”

“It wouldn’t matter even if you did,” Leonardo assured her. “Malik is deeply homosexual. He can only barely appreciate the aesthetic beauty of anyone that does not have a penis. It’s an unfortunate character flaw.” 

“You are ridiculous. If we’re going to go get something to eat, can we do that? I’m hungry.”

“Yeah,” Sofia said. “We’re walking. You two better protect me if we get mugged.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I had the opportunity to try a spa tub this weekend and it made me think of you and your addiction to large bathtubs. While it was a pleasant experience I don’t think I fully understand why you enjoy baths as much as you do. It amounts to laying in a heated vat of your own filth. 
> 
> Unrelated to that, why do you enjoy oral sex so much? After going through these Sexy Saturday submissions I am left boggling at the sheer number of women that claim you either asked to perform oral sex or were very eager to do so. What exactly is that exciting about it?

Altair’s entire week was laid out before him like a series of undesirable obligations. He had to attend his monthly meeting on Monday, a photo shoot on Tuesday, a meeting with the foundation that his lawyers and PR people agreed was the best one to further the cause of spreading awareness about the effects of child abuse on Wednesday, Thursday was Desmond’s birthday and then Friday was his flight back to California to present a plan to Mama Maria about how to ‘repair the damage’ he had inflicted on his family. 

Lying in bed reading his e-mail and trying to figure out how to explain why he enjoyed oral sex seemed preferable (by far) than anything else. He rolled onto his stomach while he thought about it and inadvertently started grinding against his mattress. Masturbating had gotten to be a pretty mundane activity since he’d given up having sex every day (he missed sex very frequently) but it was satisfying enough. He didn’t have a good answer for Sass, though. It seemed like cheating to send back nothing more informative than ‘I just like it’ but that was all he could think.

\--

MariaThorpe: has everyone taken the appropriate amount of time to gawk at @son-of-no-one’s latest paparazzi photographs? He does look nice in a suit. (12m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I also look very nice without one. (11m ago)

MariaThorpe: oh I know. (9m ago)

“So never?” was how Sofia woke him up Monday morning. She was sitting up on her side of the king sized bed with her hair braided messily and hanging over her shoulder. She was wearing an gauzy cream-colored undershirt that was stretched out of shape after two and a half days of wear. It gaped around her arms and hung loose over her breasts. Her bare legs were crossed in front of her as she read one of the latest books he’d picked out for her. The rough dark hair on her knees was very close to his face as he tried to wake up enough to understand the question.

“Never what?” Malik mumbled at her. Leonardo was a heated obstacle at his back, snoring on despite the light in the room and the fact that if they didn’t leave immediately someone would miss a class. 

“You’ve never had sex with a woman? Never seen one naked or even wanted to?” Sofia asked. She flipped her hair back over her shoulder and folded the book closed around her finger.

“I have never been attracted to a woman. I have seen one naked but not—in person?” It seemed like a terrible way to describe it. He rubbed his hand through his greasy hair (they’d also forgotten to bring shampoo that worked) and grimaced at the overall feeling of tacky dirt that was clinging to his body. Sleeping sandwiched between two other bodies had left him super-heated and sweaty. A lack of clean clothes made the intensifying stink of his body nearly nauseating to bear. “I mean, do you find other women attractive? Ever?”

“Yes,” Sofia said. “I have found one or two women to be very attractive. I did kiss a girl once and it was a very pleasurable experience but I don’t think I would have had sex with her. Do you want to see a woman naked? If you had the opportunity?”

Malik gave up on trying to politely extract himself from the mess and jabbed his elbow into Leonardo’s back so he’d shove over. That afforded him only enough space to lay flat on his back and look up at Sofia’s curious face. It must have been obvious that he was working out her ulterior motives with that question because she frowned at him. “What?” he demanded, “why would I? For novelty’s sake?”

“You are so strange,” Sofia said. Then she got up off the bed. “Get up. I promised we’d get you back before class.” 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Baths are relaxing. You did not take a bath properly if you spent the whole time thinking about laying in a stew of your own filth. Maybe you should start larger, something like a hot tub or a pool and work your way down to a bathtub.
> 
> In response to your question about oral sex, I don’t have an explanation for it. I just really like doing it. I like everything about the experience. As long as the girl is clean and not disgusting, it’s a mutually satisfying thing. If you come across a submission that says that I had an orgasm just from giving head I’ll save you the time posting it and tell you that it’s true. It was amazing.
> 
> What is your favorite comfort food? That is my question for this month.

“How about telling Maria Thorpe to jump off your dick,” Lucy said when Altair stopped by the coffee shop before the photoshoot. She handed him his drink with the word ‘dickhead’ written on the side over a rather phallic looking stack of skulls. The look on her face afforded him absolutely no understanding but accused him for being a terrible human. “I thought you didn’t have sex with her?”

“Uh,” Altair said in response. “I didn’t. Why does it matter?”

“Because there’s shamelessly slutty and then there’s fucking around with the most rightfully unloved actress. You need to take a minute and think what sort of woman uses you to get publicity and then realize that it’s not the sort of person that you want in your life.” It wasn’t even like there weren’t people waiting for their drinks either. Lucy was simply neglecting the next person in line to lecture him. 

“I—”

“You’re not a prize,” Lucy said. 

“And on that note, I’m going to go let some homosexual man with a camera take pictures of me in a pair of unnecessarily snug jeans. This was nice. We should have this conversation again.” Altair didn’t leave her a tip (he usually did) but left her still glaring at him. It wasn’t cowardly either. It was just good common sense.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> So, I’m on a lunch date.
> 
> He picked this Mexican place.
> 
> I love tacos
> 
> Good, because I need a body double to come switch out with me.
> 
> If he doesn’t shut up about his high school experience I might actually fall asleep.
> 
> I mean, he’s very proud of his accomplishments.
> 
> As proud as a peacock strutting around showing off his fancy colors.
> 
> I thought you were into fancy peacocks
> 
> Don’t try to tell me Altair isn’t a peacock
> 
> Don’t tell me you aren’t turned on by that
> 
> Ok but Altair is actually attractive. And so far I haven’t had to listen to his dissertation on how amazing he was in high school.
> 
> Drama club, football. TOP OF HIS CLASS. He was 46th in his class, Kadar.
> 
> That’s 45 spaces beneath me.
> 
> I’ve stopped listening to him.
> 
> I don’t think he’s noticed.
> 
> He keeps smiling at me.
> 
> Why are you still there?
> 
> These nachos are amazing. Also free refills on the drink.
> 
> You’re a despicable human being. Shame on you
> 
> He is now talking about his work with the cheerleaders. He gave them pointers on how to stay flexible. I can’t, Kadar.
> 
> Just eat your stupid nachos and day dream about Altair

There was something _decidedly_ , distinctly _unfair_ about the fact that Malik could find a date and get laid and have a rich, attractive man willing to perform embarrassing feats of dedication for him and Kadar couldn’t find a girlfriend. (Although, fair enough, Kadar’s problems with finding a girlfriend extended beyond the notion that people wouldn’t be willing to date him.) Still, it was nearly impossible to care about Malik’s problems.

\--

  
Son-of-no-one: someone explain why I’m only handsome when I look like I want to kill the people taking my picture? Is my smile that awful? (15m ago)

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, it is not the glare but the intensity of it that is attractive. (11m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, you’re a fantasy. Since you are suitably safe to imagine, one assumes that it is safe to imagine you are capable of all manner of savagery—sexual or otherwise—which is attractive to our base animal brains. (8m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, in reality your smile is much more attractive. (8m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, you say the sweetest things.  


Altair was wearing a suit (again) when he invited himself over to Desmond’s place. Lucy was either out with friends or not yet home from work (and Altair did not ask which) because it was only Desmond there packing up this-and-that from the shelves around his TV. Consider the man was twenty six the next day (and a millionaire) he had amassed a shockingly small amount of things in his life.

“Watch out,” Desmond said when he looked sideways at Altair, “I hear Maria Thorpe likes a man in a nice suit.”

“Hahahaha,” Altair said back. He tugged at his tie so it wasn’t choking him and flopped back into the chair that Desmond usually occupied (because it was the most comfortable of all of them). “What is your girlfriend’s problem with Maria anyway?”

“I can’t begin to guess at that. What can I do for you?” Desmond was folding paper around his collection of novelty shot glasses. “I assume you are here for a reason?”

No. Altair was just overwhelmed with the endless meeting he’d only just escaped from. While he hadn’t agreed to anything, exactly, it seemed likely that he was going to be offering financial support and his well-known face to this foundation. “What do you want for you birthday?”

“Nothing,” Desmond said. “Is this one of those things you’re not going to accept until I give you an answer?”

“Yeah.”

Desmond sighed, packed the shot glass into the box with the others and then dusted his hands off on his pants and turned around to look at Altair. He put his elbow on the shelf and put obvious effort into thinking of something. “Uh—you could teach me how to dance?”

“Dance?” Altair repeated. 

“Yes. Federico wouldn’t teach me how to lead and Ezio thought it was too funny to do anything about.” Because those brothers were dickheads. One of them was at least vastly more honest about it than the other. “I know for a fact that you know how to dance.”

“Yeah but Lucy can lead.”

Desmond sighed. “Imagine, if you can, that one day I might get married. For the sake of tradition I’d like to be able to share a dance with my future wife and be the one that leads. If you don’t want to teach me, that’s fine but spare me the bullshit.”

“I can teach you how to dance,” Altair said. “Can I film it?”

“I would expect no less from you,” Desmond said. “Do I have to wear a suit too?”

Altair smiled and Desmond huffed a sigh as he went toward his bedroom muttering mean things under his breath. “So I’ll just text your girlfriend to meet us at my place? This might take a while.”

\--

> FROM: Malik [Malik_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]  
> TO: Kadar [Kadar_Al-Sayf@gmail.com]
> 
> Click this link but don’t share it anywhere. Apparently this asshole decided to teach his cousin how to dance as his birthday present this year. Just ignore the first two minutes where he explains how he had to learn to dance as a kid and how Desmond managed to luck out of that obligation. Ignore all of that. Go on and skip to the part where the two god-damned morons are dancing in his living room. 
> 
> Watch this asshole with this stupidly well-edited waste of my time. Desmond miraculously manages to go from being completely unable to move two steps to nearly perfect form. It’s stupid right. Because it’s just a waltz. Everyone can waltz! Nobody cares. And since it’s you, you’re probably thinking to yourself (this very moment) that I’m only bothering to share this video with you because I find it sexually frustrating to watch Altair in a suit dancing with another man never mind the other man in the dance is his cousin. Because you’re not wrong. This incredible bastard is dancing with another man and the image of it is forever seared into my brain. He is incredibly, disgustingly attractive to me because he so easily dances and looks comfortable being led around the dance floor.
> 
> But that’s not it! Because then Lucy shows up somewhere in the middle and interrupts to challenge them do something more athletic. That must be why the assholes are doing a tango. It must be. 
> 
> What’s wrong with that, you ask? Since most of the time Altair keeps falling on his ass because he can’t do spins and Desmond is having trouble remembering where to put his feet and how to hang on to him. Just keep watching it, Kadar. Eventually you’ll get to the part where Lucy shows up wearing her stupid white dress and heels. You’d think Oh Lucy is going to let Altair take the lead and you’d be SO WRONG. 
> 
> So this asshole sent me this video because he thought ‘I’d like it’ and he wasn’t sure he wanted to put it out on the internet and asked my opinion. I want to light him on fire at the moment. What a dick.

Kadar was probably not the best person to offer Malik a fair and unbiased opinion about the video. To him, it was a funny enough sort of thing to watch. Altair fell over a lot and at one point just laid on the ground laughing while Desmond (who did look remarkably similar to his cousin) apologized until he got frustrated with the laughter and rolled his eyes. 

The final dance, the tango, was more sexually provocative than anything else in the video. Lucy’s bare arms were the sort of thing that frustrated teenager wet-dreams were made of. The effortless way she spun Altair around and the assertiveness of her fingers digging into his ass was a confusing mix of hot as hell and embarrassing. Altair knew how to use his body to his advantage (that much was evident) and Lucy knew how to be dominant. By their powers together, the whole final dance could just as easily been a scene from a sophisticated porno. 

Kadar had to deal with his raging hard-on before he could address Malik’s problems.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> If you had danced on the competition show you were on the way you danced in this video you might not have been voted off so quickly. Apparently, they gave you the wrong role on the show. As to whether or not you should publish it on the internet, I leave that decision up to you. I imagine if you post it that you’ll garner a good deal of attention for the sexual overtones and the fact that you assumed the less dominant role in the dance. People are shallow in that manner. They will either find it very attractive and make sexual advances in the comments or they will call you gay again. Or both. Most likely both. Some of them will happen simultaneously.
> 
> As for my favorite comfort food, I had to think about this far too long to be certain of my answer. As a general rule, when I’m upset I don’t eat anything. I purposefully avoid food until I feel less upset despite the fact that hunger makes it harder for me to calm down and be reasonable. If I had to pick one sort of food that reminds me of comfort I think it would be cinnamon sugar cookies. My Mother started making them after my Father died and I remember cutting them out with her and how our whole house smelled so delicious for hours. I haven’t had them in a very long time but whenever I smell something similar I remember my Mother’s kitchen.

Altair smiled at the jealousy that was oozing out from between the lines of Sass’ e-mail. It was a nice thing to think about while he snoozed through the trip from New York to sunny California. There was a car at the airport to pick him up and deliver him directly to Mama Maria’s home. (So he would not have time to embarrass them any more while he was in town.) At the end of a long-long week of having to be mature and think through the things, he was left feeling abused and in desperate need of anything but more of the same.

Despite this, he found himself being greeted at the door by Mama Maria looking regal as she invited him in. They didn’t go to the war room but to one of the side rooms where tea was often served in little glass cups and snacks were brought in on trays and left crumbly and dry on the side tables. 

“How have you been?” Mama Maria asked him. “We did not have much time to talk when you were here before.”

“I’m great.”

Mama Maria obviously did not believe him. “I trust you have some ideas about how to handle the fall out of our recent, very public scandal. I would love to hear them.” She was so gentle with her voice and so steely with the intent behind them. 

Altair nodded. “Yeah, I have one. I’m not going to do anything.” It was really the only plan that he had. He sat up a little straighter in his seat and cleared his throat. “What I mean is I’m going to go on living my life the way I have been up until now. If you’re worried that your image has been tarnished by recent events you are absolutely right it has. That was my goal this whole time. I have no reason or urge to polish your public image up like a new penny. I want this shame to follow you around like a ripe stink because what you did was unforgivable.”

The side door opened briefly but the woman who was set to bring the little snacks in was stalled by Mama Maria’s swiftly raised hand. A dismissive gesture sent the poor woman scuttling backward out of the doorway. They were left in uncomfortable silence as Mama Maria tipped her head and considered what she was told. “This solution does not seem like a compromise, Altair.”

No it wasn’t meant to be. “I don’t feel like I’m under any obligation to make you feel better. I told Ezio I’d be on his show if he wanted me to be. I’ll show up at family functions and charity events that I’m invited to. We can continue on like we always have. The only difference between now and a year ago is that everyone knows we aren’t the family you tried to make people believe we are.”

Mama Maria sighed. She put her hand on the arm of the chair and ran her tongue across her pretty lips before letting out a noise that might have been meant to be a word. It was a shallow sound across her tongue there-and-gone. Another moment passed and she said, “my desire to heal the damage done to our family does not revolve exclusively around our public image. I genuinely wish to reunite all of us.”

“I do love you, Mama Maria. I’m angry. I feel betrayed by you. I don’t want to forgive you because I feel like if I do that I’m giving up something I don’t want to give up. I don’t know how to fix that. I’ll show up. I’ll try.”

It wasn’t enough and that was evident from the sad disappointment on her face. She nodded and reached across the space between them to touch her soft-soft fingertips across his rough knuckles. It was a fleeting, brief touch to reassure him of her indeterminate feelings. Then it was gone and Mama Maria was settling back into her chair more fully. “What is happening between Maria Thorpe and you?” she asked. “I have heard rumors.”

“Yeah, well I don’t know. I was going to ask if you could help me arrange an accidental meeting with her so I can ask.” Asking for a favor after denying Mama Maria the reconciliation she wanted was a brash and immature move. Still, she smiled at him and nodded.

\--

sass-badger: RT: ‘@notyourbrother: someone’s dumbass cat tore up my curtains and isn’t even sorry!’ look at his face, he’s innocent. (20m ago)

Notyourbrother: @sass-badger, that is not innocence. That is a mask to hide his guilt. (18m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @notyourbrother, is that the cat from the Sett that freezes the comment threads? (16m ago)

Notyourbrother: @son-of-no-one, it is #badgercat (15m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger, that is a good looking cat. (10m ago)

Sass-badger: @son-of-no-one, I know that it was physically painful for you to resist the temptation to use the word pussy in that sentence. I want you to know it was very mature.(9m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger, thank you. (7m ago)

Altair just happened to be (purposefully) in the bar of the hotel that Maria Thorpe was staying at while she was in town on business. He happened to be there at a time that Mama Maria had arranged to meet Maria Thorpe and was therefore granted an audience with the woman herself.

Maria was wearing a dress that attempted modesty and only just barely failed to attain it. Her body was a masterpiece displayed in its full magnificence by the curve-hugging dress she wore. Her dark hair was hanging freely around her face in a way that made her look more youthful than usual for her. But more than anything the way she slapped her clutch purse on the bar top and sighed at him with her hand on her hip and her smile slipping off her face was the most immature (and authentic) thing about her. “I _should have_ guessed,” she said. Then she slid up onto the barstool and put one of her feet between his where they were resting on the crossbar of the stool he was sitting on. “You could have contacted me yourself. I am evidently interested in exploiting the rumor that we are interested in one another.”

“Why?” Altair asked. “I’m not prize.” (Lucy would be thrilled with him, surely.)

The bartender interrupted their attempt at a conversation to ask if Maria wanted anything and she politely declined. When she looked at Altair, the smile she’d employed against the bartender stayed fixed on her face but there was a weariness around her eyes that made her far more human than he was comfortable with. “I am not well-liked,” Maria said. “Despite the fact that you are an arrogant pimple, you are well-liked. As such, you are an improvement.”

“I’m not interested in dating you,” Altair said.

“I am aware you’re much more interested in imaginary ‘girls’ on the internet,” Maria said. She even used finger quotes around the word girls as if the idea that Sass existed and was a woman was that hard to believe. “Or any woman, really, that is willing to spread her thighs for you.”

“Good, so stop.”

Maria licked her lips and scooted forward on the stool. The space between them was painfully intimate, the way being able to smell the make-up on her face was painfully intimate. Her fingers brushed through his hair on the left side before resting against his cheek. “Why did you help me before?”

Altair tipped his head opposite to the tilt of hers. He took her hand off his face and she wound her fingers through his. “Because Grandmother said you should always help the people in your own class because it’s best if they owe you.”

“Then I will owe you,” Maria said. “Allow me my harmless flirting. Tell your girlfriend that it is empty if that is what bothers you. I do not need anything more from you than that.” But she leaned in close enough someone might have thought she was going to kiss him. Her lips didn’t touch him but it was close enough that Altair closed his eyes in reflex to the nearness. She pulled back again with a huge smile and laughed. She slithered off the seat and gave him a saucy little wave and sauntered out of the room.

“Well shit,” Altair said to the empty barstool in front of him.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Told Ezio about your dance idea and he laughed for ten minutes straight and then demanded we use it for his show. Now I get to go stand around in a suit asking people to dance with me. I hope you are happy. I can’t film it for my own independent purposes because he wants it for his show but I’ll find a way to send you a clip so that you are satisfied I did it. Then you could tell me something sex-based you enjoy doing. Since we talked about how I like oral sex.
> 
> And yes, I did want specifically the cookies that your Mother made. If I told you that I loved apple pie and demanded you go google some random recipe for it, you wouldn’t understand that the reason I love apple pie is because of how my Grandmother made it all from scratch and the exact combination of spices that she used. Not every apple pie is my Grandmother’s apple pie and any pie that isn’t is a disappointing fraud. I can wait until you talk to your Mom. 
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_  
>  I am not google. There has to be countless recipes for cinnamon cookies on the internet. If you want the specific one my Mother made I’ll try to remember to ask her about it when we speak again. I don’t know the recipe because I don’t bake.
> 
> Maria Thorpe seems like a wonderful person. It can only be for the best that you’re now associated with her. Of course when you get tired of playing along with the charade you can always start calling her by the wrong name and act surprised whenever you see her as you didn’t know she was there. 
> 
> I have a new bet for you. I’m not sure what the prize will be but I was thinking about how you have declined to post the dancing video. It seems like the world would benefit from being able to see you show off your ballroom dancing skills. So my challenge (or bet if you prefer) to you is to set up an impromptu dance-lesson in a well-travelled area and invite strangers to join you in a dance. Film it and then present it to the world.
> 
>  
> 
> _Altair wrote_  
>  You will have to find me a recipe for those cinnamon cookies so I can try them. 
> 
> I had a lovely meeting with Maria Thorpe today. I went there to tell her to stop using me to make people like her. The idea that being connected to me would improve anyone’s social standing or public image seems mind-boggling. Apparently, I’m higher on the likeable chart than she is because she informed me that I’m an ‘improvement’ to her current situation. As such she has decided that she’s just going to keep flirting with me. On the one hand, having her owe me a favor can only be a good thing. But on the other hand, having to deal with people asking me if I’m dating her and coming up with clever avoidance maneuvers to get away from it is a pain in the ass. Either way, I have no actual interest in Maria Thorpe. But I’m sure the rumors about us are going to get started again since she groped me in a bar.

Malik hated the moron. He hated him so much his hard drive was a maze of empty folders and broken pathways hiding his secret chest of pictures-and-videos of the moron. He had memorized the addresses and keywords of his favorite pictures and videos. And he showed up at Leonardo’s after that stupid dancing video and bluntly informed him they would be having sex now (which was good, as it always was) but Malik was lonely in the aftermath.

He’d been lonely for days. It was a nagging, constant sensation that only abated after midnight when he should have been sleeping but was reading brand-new-e-mails from the moron smiling to himself over every stupid word. Malik didn’t answer the e-mail because he wanted to keep it for himself a little while longer; because he liked the idea that Altair was waiting for the reply and thinking about what some imaginary girl (named Sass) must be doing instead of answering him.

It was stupid the way the Harlequins stacked at his bedside were stupid. The way Sofia was stupid trying to explain the notion of true love to him was stupid. The way Leonardo sighing over the lack of beauty in his soul was stupid. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I think I fucked up.
> 
> Your late night tweets are unnecessarily dramatic
> 
> I think I love him.
> 
> Yeah.
> 
> Congratulations, Malik. I think you’re finally a real person now
> 
> Well it sucks.
> 
> Did he? I mean I know he’s got this oral fix but I assume penis is different than vagina
> 
> No he did not.
> 
> Thank you for adding humor to this awful situation.
> 
> I will lose all respect for you if he doesn’t have to suck off a unicorn pop as a bet one day
> 
> You are a disturbing individual.
> 
> look, I’m glad you figured it out
> 
> and since you figured it out I can say this
> 
> go back to having one-night stands.
> 
> You were never emotionally available for a relationship but now that you know you love this guy, it’s even less fair to your unwitting victims
> 
> What you don’t understand is these people actually have the capability of wanting a relationship and connecting with people
> 
> You don’t. So stop stringing them along
> 
> Go back to sleep.
> 
> You’re making too much sense.
> 
> Go watch your boyfriend read Twilight half-naked and masturbate

The mix of victorious delight and gray discontent that followed the conversation left Kadar momentarily unable to sleep again. Sailor was swatting at spots of light from the open window and Kadar caught him around his tiny body and dragged him close enough to pet. The kitten was initially resistant but melted against Kadar’s chest with a grateful purr. He curled up near his throat and purred as long as Kadar kept stroking his fingers down the kitten’s skinny back. 

“I just want to sleep again,” Kadar told the cat. “I have got to start turning my phone off at night.”


	35. Chapter 35

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> So I just managed to escape the dance lesson square. We were calling it ballroom hell by the end of the day but mostly it wasn’t that bad. Ezio thought it was fun but that’s because there wasn’t a pleasant looking female that passed him by that he didn’t manage to convince to stop and dance with him. He also gave out roses. What an asshole.
> 
> I was going to send you a picture but I decided to send you this video instead. (And you better appreciate the effort that went into this because figuring out how to get it off my phone and into this e-mail was a pain in the ass.) The woman in the video is 71 years old and she is 4 foot 5 inches tall. She only speaks Italian and the only reason she stopped and agreed to dance was because Ezio was complimenting some woman’s behind and this lovely old woman overheard him and slapped him for it. Then she wanted to dance with me because she didn’t want to dance with some lecherous young man. She was very concerned about her virtue, she made sure to mention twice that she was a widow! 
> 
> It’s probably hard to tell if you’re watching TV or looking at pictures but Ezio is two inches shorter than me. Probably shorter than that but he refuses to acknowledge it. His shoes make him look taller. He’s not very tall at all, in actuality. Anyway—so this tiny, tiny woman is dancing with me and that’s fine because I’ve had to dance with all sorts ever since I learned how as a kid. Then she starts groping my ass. And making these noises about how firm I am. I’m sending you the whole video—you can tell when her hands wander because my face gets really red. I just thought you’d like to see the face of the woman that now has a better idea what my body feels like than you do. 
> 
> And also, she was genuinely a lovely woman to dance with. Even if I was sure I was going to break her.

Malik watched the video while he was in the library, with a spread of books covering up the fact that he wasn’t actually studying and wasn’t actually working on his papers that were due soon. He didn’t care about the short-short amount of time left before finals started because he was pressing a smile into his palm watching Altair go a brilliant tomato-red color as some pleasantly old woman grabbed his ass. There was very poor sound with the video, just enough to hear Ezio’s laugh to the side and the humming noise the woman made. There was traffic in the background that covered up the sound of Altair’s response to getting groped but even if it hadn’t, Malik didn’t speak Italian and wouldn’t have understood it anyway.

\--

Sass-Badger: I’m searching for something to congratulate you on @son-of-no-one, how many languages do you know? (10m ago)

Bestofthree: @sass-badger, I think it’s 8. I know he knows Italian, German, Spanish and Arabic but I don’t know what the other ones are. (9m ago)

EzioAuditore: @sass-badger, I have heard him speak Japanese before. I don’t know if it was any good. (7m ago)

Coffee4college: @sass-badger, I know he knows Italian, English, Arabic, German, French, and what he claims is Finnish. (6m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @sass-badger, the last count was 10. English, Arabic, Hebrew, Spanish, German, Russian, Finnish, French, Italian and some Korean. If he did learn Japanese that’s 11 (5m ago)

FedericotheFirst: @Sass-Badger, it’s twelve. Take the list Desmond gave you and add Portuguese. He fell in love with that one girl and learned it to talk to her when he was 10. (3m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @FedericotheFirst, I don’t think it counts if I’ve forgotten it since I learned it. I do not speak Japanese, Korean or Finnish fluently. The rest of Desmond’s list is right. (1m ago)

Desmond watched the exchange unfold in the span of time between carrying boxes down the stairs and waiting for Lucy to arrive with the truck that was going to be moving their joint belongings across town to Altair’s stupidly impossible-to-dismiss building. The condos there were easily better than anything Desmond could find, the location was central to everything that was important in any way to their lives and most importantly, the price was a laughable sum for such a place. Altair probably didn’t care much for profit loss but someone, somewhere, had to be upset about the price that Desmond paid for the condo.

He rolled his eyes at the memory of Altair demanding a tutor for Portuguese the summer he decided he was going to fall in love with that girl that always wore the orange jumper and smelled like strawberry candy. Desmond hadn’t been a fan of the girl but Altair had been so desperately in love with her that he had stubbornly learned a whole language for her. It had taken him a week and a half of intensive study and he emerged able to carry on conversations that lasted for hours. (Perhaps that was the first time any of them had any idea exactly what Altair’s determination was capable of. Perhaps it was the first time Altair’s ability to absorb languages was really truly impressive.) They had broken up in the end and Altair might very well have used his will-power to force himself to forget the whole language.

“Is Altair actually a genius?” Lucy asked when she showed up with the truck. “I thought that was just something he said to be an asshole. Is he actually that smart?”

Desmond nodded as he lifted the boxes up and pushed them into the back of the moving truck. Lucy moved them to where she wanted them with little grunts of effort. “Yeah he’s that smart. Federico used to tease him about being stupid and Altair got angry at him when he was like thirteen or fourteen and said he was smarter than Federico was. They both took the exact same test—like an SAT or something—and Altair got a perfect score and Federico did… _not_.”

“Is that why they hate one another?” Lucy asked. 

“No.” Desmond lifted the last box that he’d managed to get down the stairs and then rubbed his hand through his sweaty hair. “Federico changed a lot after his brother died. Mama Maria taking in Altair and raising him—even if it was only for a few years—was probably an insult to the memory of Petruccio that Federico just can’t get over.” 

“Yeah, okay.” Lucy said. She jumped down out of the truck. “But I’m sure the fact that Altair is smarter also doesn’t help. Is this all you’ve done? I’ve been gone for like thirty minutes.”

“Are you ki—that’s ten boxes. There are _seven_ flights of stairs. I’d like to see you do better.”

Lucy dusted her hands off and smiled up at him. “I will. Let’s race. Winner gets top.” 

Desmond sighed. Lucy counted them down: _ready-set-go_.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
> TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> The amazing thing about the video that you sent me is not that you managed not to accidentally step on that tiny woman but that despite everything you managed to be polite and even courteous to her. There was not even the slyest hint of irony when you spoke to her or even a glint of selfishness when you thanked her for the dance. One might assume you danced with this woman for purely selfless reasons. I am impressed; I didn’t think you were capable of that level of basic human decency without reward.
> 
> As to your question about what sort of sexual things I like, I have spent a while trying to think of one specific thing I could name that didn’t require some further explanation. I suffer from the inability to be concise in my desires. Most of the things I like are preferred because of the context they happen in. But devoid of detailed explanation, I like sex that takes a significant amount of time. Extended foreplay, snack breaks, or just a very dedicated partner that isn’t in a hurry to orgasm. 
> 
> Why do you know so many languages? I’ve managed to figure out that some of the languages you speak are based off countries that your Grandmother’s companies are based in or operate in but even that doesn’t seem like a good enough reason for you to bother learning them fluently. 

Ezio was not drunk but _drinking_ and the distinction was important. Ezio when he was drunk was useless and half-coordinated. He was prone to fighting and outbursts of rampant hugging that left everyone near to him uncomfortable with closeness. But Ezio _drinking_ was an entirely different beast. He was a benevolent host with wine in his glass and a spread of food that smelled so strongly of the old-family-villa neatly situated in the sunniest part of Italy that Altair was homesick on his behalf. 

There was only two of them since Claudia and her friends had left. Federico had declined to show based on whatever reasons he came up with and that left Ezio sprawled in one of his large-dining-chairs with a song lolling out of his mouth half-realized and terrible. 

Altair was checking his phone waiting for a reply while Ezio watched him with narrow-squinted eyes. His smile came on slowly, started at one of the corners of his lips and stretched across his face before he was laughing. “What is wrong with you?”

Ezio set his glass down, leaned forward across the space separating them and slapped Altair so hard on the back of the shoulder it was confusing about whether or not he meant it to be affectionate. “What was it you said? You do not believe in love? You liar.”

Altair shoved Ezio back and couldn’t get his stupid heavy, sweaty and slightly tipsy cousin to get far enough away from him. So he jabbed his elbow into Ezio’s ribs when he tried to get an arm around Altair’s shoulders. That gave him some breathing room but not a lot. “She’s my friend. I’m just waiting on a reply, okay?”

“Why are you afraid to be in love?” Ezio asked. He had moved his seat closer so he could keep his arm around Altair’s shoulders and knock their heads together while he sipped his wine out of the dainty glass. “To be in love is a miracle! We are never so human as we are when—”

“Yeah, really?” Altair asked. “What happened to that girl that you loved? She looked a lot like the one Federico married.”

It wasn’t even worth protesting when Ezio’s arm tightened around his neck and his knuckles dragged across Altair’s scalp in a purposefully painful manner. He said, “you are a mean bitch, cousin. I would not change a moment of the time I had with Cristina. I would not change the things I felt for her. I do not regret anything about it. I am not afraid of love.”

“Ezio,” Altair said. He couldn’t get any space but was pulled up tight to Ezio’s chest. His cousin hummed a curious sound and smiled at him with lazy-lips that couldn’t quite cooperate. “I think you should put the wine up now.”

“What do you think she looks like, this woman of yours?”

Altair sighed. “I don’t know. Statistically, she probably has dark hair because most of the women I’ve had sex with have darker hair. I also seem to like complexions closer to mine but I’ve slept with bleach-white women and really dark skinned black women. Probably brown eyes.”

“Statistically?” Ezio repeated. “This is your _heart_! Do not spoil it with math.”

“My heart doesn’t know what she looks like,” Altair said. He had no image in his head of what Sass must look like but a strange montage of the most-likely-traits that she would have. The things that he found the most attractive in women mixed-and-matched in the space behind his eyelids when he couldn’t fall asleep or had too much time waiting around for this-or-that. “But I’m serious. Put the wine up.”

“Oh, fine,” Ezio said. He relented and moved away. “You will not regret loving someone, Altair. But you may regret being too afraid to take the chance.” Then he picked up a dish of pasta and carried it off toward the balcony with the bottle of wine tucked under his arm. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]   
> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m bored. Play scrabble with me. You know, unless you’re afraid I’ll beat you. Which I will.

“That motherfucker,” Malik snarled at his computer. He was sitting in the last free corner of the thrift-store-couch that Leonardo had bought to give his living space somewhere that afforded something like comfortable seating. Sofia was sitting in front of them with a bowl of popcorn held in her lap and Leonardo was laying across the majority of the couch with his feet pushed under Malik’s thigh. Both of them turned away from the TV (playing an interruptive commercial that kept them from gawking at how hot Ezio fucking Auditore was) to look at him with varying levels of concern.

“I thought you were studying?” Sofia said. She tipped her head back to look at his computer but Malik wasn’t paying enough attention to her to care.

“What kind of fucking word is that?” Malik demanded. “That’s not even a word. How is that a word?”

“What is it?” Leonardo asked. “You have forty seconds to tell me and then you have to go back to your silent disapproval of our TV-watching habits. Silent being the most important aspect of this.”

“Zymurgy,” Malik said. He wasn’t necessarily furious about the word (but he was) but that Altair had managed to get over a hundred points with the stupid thing. It gave him a lead that seemed almost impossible to overcome and the little asshole sent him a smiling emoticon through the small chat section on the bottom of the screen.

Sofia looked confused about the word.

“It’s a branch of chemistry,” Leonardo said (bored, so _bored_ ). “It deals with fermentation. It’s a word. Now be quiet.” He went so far as to poke his toes up into the meat of Malik’s thighs to make his point that much more memorable.

Malik glared at the smiling emoticon and then at the board and his letters. He hadn’t played Scrabble (perhaps ever, because Kadar hated games that required one to use their brain) but it seemed easy enough to figure out. He had to get words on the tiles that doubled points if he wanted to win. And he had to be far more malicious about it if he was going beat Altair who seemed to delight in finding his way to triple-letter-score squares.

\--

> ###  _April 1st, 2008_ : Good Show, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad
> 
> It seems that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad has grown tired of his wayward ways and had decided to settle down once and for all. Before any of you accuse him of making a drastic decision about his future seemingly out of nowhere, I would like to remind you that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad is an adult and deserves to be respected for his choices. 
> 
> Yes, I have just received word from the man himself that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad plans to marry and buy an immodest home in an upscale neighborhood. His current plans do not involve any children but he has adopted two small dogs that he says he considers to be ‘his beloved children’. He has named them Xi and Aerie and assures me that they have already visited a pet therapist to help them heal from the trauma of having been handled by so many people before they found his forever home with him. 
> 
> [Image: Altair with two small Yorkshire terrier puppies balanced in each of his hands. The background is indistinct.]
> 
> While the world is relieved to have removed a potential cesspool of disease and bad choices from the dating scene, I can’t help but feel a bit of sadness at this new development. While I would happily continue to mock Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad for his behavior as long as he remained single, I find that I cannot bring myself to do so now that I know he is plural. To mock him would be to mock his wife by extension and that is something I simply will not do. 
> 
> So this is my farewell, my friends. It has been a journey and I wish everyone—including Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad—the very best.
> 
> Thank you.  
> Sass-Badger.

Kadar buried his face in Sailor’s fur and groaned at the stupidity of people on the internet long before he actually clicked the button that allowed him to read the comments. Most of them were the most obvious (over)reactions demanding to know how this had happened and how it could be possible.

Someone suggested Maria Thrope as a potential wife and the comment section turned into a hellish roast of her character. One or two of them were wailing over how they wouldn’t ever have the chance to have sex with Altair now. It was hard to tell how many of them were aware of the gag before some angelic person finally bothered to say: 

_‘…take a minute. Look at the date. Feel ashamed of yourselves.’_

\--

Son-of-no-one: shit! I’m getting married, everyone. If @sass-badger says it, it must be true. Where can I find a bride at this short notice? (30m ago)

Federicothefirst: I remember Russia having a market for that sort of thing at some point @son-of-no-one (21m ago)

Shirley-Templar: I refuse to take part in this farce. (13m ago)

Coffee4college: @son-of-no-one, the best part of this is that it’s on four websites besides Sass’. (10m ago)

BestofThree: @notyourbrother, will you be giving your sister away at the wedding? (9m ago)

NotYourBrother: @BestofThree, where did you get your information? Who is the spy? (7m ago)

BestofThree: @notyourbrother, I will never tell. how does badgercat feel about its new siblings? (6m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, we have the pet therapist working on that problem as we speak. He did such a good job with Xi and Aerie. I’m sure he can merge our new family (5m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, I leave the internet for two hours and suddenly I’m getting married to you. (4m ago)

Sass-Badger: also, actual photograph of the first meeting between Xi, Aerie and badgercat. (2m ago)

The picture was of a massive splatter of ketchup across table. Altair laughed far louder than he probably should have. It was so far removed from any sort of humor that Sass had ever attempted before that it was glorious in a way that misusing the picture of Claudia’s (best) friend’s dogs couldn’t quite be. While he had spent a good portion of the day fending off glances in his direction about whether or not he was going to get married—and while he was gifted with an entire article forward to him that suggested possible brides for him—by far the highlight was a stupid grainy picture of a ketchup splatter meant to be the bloody remains of the animals that didn’t survive their first encounter.

Alone in his hotel room, it was the most ridiculously perfect thing he’d ever seen.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> So how’s the move?
> 
> everything is moved, nothing is put away
> 
> Did you pick out curtains?
> 
> What?
> 
> You told me when I bought my place that a house is not a home without curtains.
> 
> Take Lucy, buy curtains.
> 
> You remember that?
> 
> I’m pretty sure I bought your curtains
> 
> You did.

Desmond was mostly naked while he talked to Altair. Lucy had left to make popcorn but she was already on her way back, wearing nothing but the button down shirt (with none of the buttons done up) as she walked back over to him. They had managed to move everything into their new home and had found the bed, the modem and router and his laptop. Nothing else had gotten done except ordering food and giggling like idiots as they ate take out in their new condo. (And sex. Sex had happened.)

Lucy sat down next to him, her long-slim-legs crossed in front of her and the bag of searing hot popcorn held from her extended fingers. She was licking her thumb like she’d burnt it. “What?” she asked. “Did Altair do something stupid?”

“Of course he did,” Desmond said. “He said we should go buy curtains.”

“That seems like an important grown-up decision,” she said. “Like, a real decision that we would have to make as a couple that would require all this discussion and compromise. I’m not sure we’re there yet.” She looked at her thumb when she finished talking and decided it wasn’t burnt bad enough to worry about. 

“How long do we have to know one another before we can make couple decisions?” Desmond asked.

“No,” Lucy said. She shoved him back flat on the bed and dropped the popcorn to the side with his laptop they’d been watching movies on. “I meant, we haven’t had enough sex yet. I have tomorrow off too, we can get curtains then. Right now, I just want your dick.” 

Desmond pulled her down with two hands slid up under her shirt, palms pushed against her shoulders. She came easily, rested on her elbows over his shoulders as her hair fell in tangles around their faces. “Just my dick?” he said. He kissed her and she hummed like she was pretending to think. 

“Maybe your mouth, maybe your hands. Let’s see how you do.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> It’s just very useful to know a lot of languages. It’s something that easily impresses people and they aren’t that difficult for me to learn. My Grandmother knew three or four and I remember thinking she must be the smartest person in the world. She said that it was important to be able to communicate with other people or something like that. And she thought that if people were expected to learn English that the least she could do was try to learn their languages. It didn’t come to her naturally, she was terrible at other languages.
> 
> Arabic and Hebrew I learned because of my Father. He didn’t speak English very well and I guess he wanted me to have something from my heritage.
> 
> Since its April already, how about a slightly more in-depth question. I know you have a younger Brother you are very protective of and a Mother and that your Father died. Tell me something about your family? Don’t be stingy. 
> 
> If it’s not inappropriate to say, I find your sexual preference to be intriguing. Something to think on.

The hands spread across his back just seconds before the body pressed up full against his back. When he looked down the bone-pale-hands were spread across his chest and Altair was groaning about the terrible luck that he’d been born with. Forget everything that had happened before that moment, Maria-Goddamn-Thorpe being at this club (Ezio had insisted they go to) and finding him in a crowd of people had to be the worst thing that had ever happened to him. She was up on her toes, pulling him down with her nails digging into his chest and her bony chin pressing into his shoulder. “Hello,” she said.

Altair pried her hand off his left side and turned around to face her. She wasn’t hinting at modesty here because people that came to this club weren’t terribly interested in looking like they cared what the world thought of them. “If you start drawing blood, I’m going to start telling everyone you’re a bitch.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “They will not be impressed that you’ve figured it out. Dance with me.”

“After that are we going to accidentally-on-purpose run into some people with cameras?” Altair asked. “I actually want to get laid so unless you’re offering, I would rather try to find someone that—”

“I will find you a woman,” Maria said. Her hand waved at the side. “Dance with me.” She didn’t give him enough time to protest but pulled him straightaway to the dance floor.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> When are you coming home this year?
> 
> May 14.
> 
> Miss me?
> 
> No. I just want to be able to countdown the days until I don’t have to take care of this stupid litter box anymore.
> 
> Good to know your priorities are in order
> 
> Talk to your boyfriend about why he’s homophobic yet?
> 
> No
> 
> Ok then, I bet you fifty bucks it’s because of the dick cousin.
> 
> I’ve heard Federico mocks gay men
> 
> But I don’t think it’s his fault.
> 
> Whatever, you need to get started.
> 
> This whole thing is getting ridiculous.
> 
> I didn’t realize you had such a personal stake in it
> 
> You’re my sister, Malik. I just want what’s best for you.

What was best for Malik probably didn’t involve staying up until three in the morning playing Scrabble against a loser-genius that probably purposefully memorized obscure words for the sole purpose of beating people at the stupid game. Malik was so tired there was tears leaking out of the corners of his eyes. He was camped out on Leonardo’s sofa, snarling dirty things at the computer screen and falling asleep in the little gaps of time between his and Altair’s turn. 

He woke up long enough to see: _you idiot, go to sleep._ in the chat box at the bottom of the screen and the time stamp that informed him it was sent over forty minutes ago. Malik rubbed his eyes and yawned, looked for whatever the most recent word was and couldn’t’ distinguish it from the blur that made up the rest of the screen. 

_Fine, I’m going._

_Dream of dictionaries, I need a worthy opponent_ , was the response he got when he was back from the bathroom. 

Malik was too tired to come up with a witty reply so he slapped a :P on it and watched the stupid thing turn into an emoticon sticking it’s tongue out at Altair. There was no answer before he closed the laptop and dug the ratty sheet out of the couch cushions. He was asleep before he had time to worry about being offended at Altair’s insinuation that he didn’t know enough words. 

\--

> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> Hey, are you coming home soon?
> 
> I’m not asking because I need to slap you for once again getting photographed with Maria Thorpe
> 
> If I promise you that she never got on my dick will you quit?
> 
> No. 
> 
> I think Desmond’s having a relapse or whatever it is you call someone who is getting over depression that’s having a bad day.
> 
> I don’t know what they call that
> 
> Bad day? More than one day?
> 
> A couple days. 
> 
> I mean, nothing serious.
> 
> I can come back. I’m not doing anything here I can’t do there
> 
> K
> 
> Thanks.

Altair didn’t drag himself out of bed until the day was half-over, ignored his annoyance to find he hadn’t gotten any messages from Sass (on any sort of media) and then went about the boring process of finding and buying plane tickets. He stopped by Ezio’s place only long enough to tell his cousin he was going back and then got a cab to the airport.

By night, he was back in New York, found his way to Desmond’s new place a few floors down from his and discovered that in a week’s worth of time, the two had managed to do nothing _except_ hang curtains. All of their belongings was still in boxes spread out across the floor and the bed that should have been in the bedroom was sitting in the living room. 

“Dude,” Altair said. “You suck at moving.”

Desmond was eating some kind of noodles out of a styrofoam bowl like he wasn’t aware that he had too much money to be doing anything of the sort. Lucy was not in the apartment (so far as Altair could tell) and the quiet of the empty rooms had the habit of reminding someone about everything they’d failed to accomplish in their lives. “Lucy ask you to come back?”

Altair just wanted somewhere to lay down but Desmond’s bed was probably covered in sex so he just sat on the floor next to him and rubbed one of his eyes that was feeling sticky and gross. “Uh, she mentioned you were having a bad week.”

“Yeah,” Desmond said. He tipped the bowl up and sipped the broth out of it. “I haven’t ever wanted anything, you know. I mean I’m sure that I did. I had to have wanted away from my Dad or away from Federico. But I haven’t ever wanted anything for my future. Lucy and I went to buy curtains and we were talking about how we were going to decorate our place. We went and looked at furniture and she was telling me about how she used to imagine what sort of house she was going to live in as an adult. I mean—people do that right?”

Altair nodded. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever cared. I don’t think it was ever important to me. I’m angry because I realized,” Desmond set the bowl down, “that I didn’t get to be a kid that dreamed up what his future was going to be. I have nothing. I’m twenty six years old and I have no dreams at all.”

“Well,” Altair said with a yawn. “I think there’s a way to fix that. Take the girl that’s crazy about you, go to every furniture store in the city and figure out what you like. Start watching whatever that channel is that does decorating. It’s not the end of the world, Desmond.”

“You came all the way back here because you were worried about me?” Desmond said.

Altair nodded. 

“You could have called.”

Yes, well that wouldn’t have been good enough. Altair shrugged. He rubbed his eye again and frowned at the mattress and the unseen filth that was all over it. “I expected you to have more furniture when I came here instead of my place. Why don’t you have a sofa? Where is Lucy?”

“She’s out with her friends. Unless one of them says something about how she’s gotten stuck up, then she’ll back. I offered to go along and she said she was going to talk about how much she liked my body so I probably shouldn’t this time.” He was smiling fondly over that memory. “How are things with Sass?”

“Confusing,” Altair said. “She sucks at Scrabble.”

“Go to bed, idiot. I’ll be fine. We can go get breakfast tomorrow and you can worry over me when you’re fully conscious. But if it matters, I really am fine.” Desmond must have been better than he’d been in months because he dragged Altair up to his feet and shoved him toward the boy. He was grinning the whole way. “Do you need me to follow you and make sure you eat?”

“Shut up,” Altair mumbled. “I’m sure I have something that doesn’t require cooking.” He hugged Desmond before he went back toward the elevator. “Call me tomorrow, remind me about breakfast.”


	36. Chapter 36

> ###  Chat While You Play! 
> 
> **Sass** : I hate everything about you.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : because you have a really poor vocabulary?  
>  **Sass** : because this has clearly turn into another way to boost your ego?  
>  **Sass** : because I should be studying.  
>  **Sass** : because I could have been getting laid.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : well if you expect me to apologize for that last one you are terribly mistaken.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : besides intellectual simulation is better than an orgasm anyway.  
>  **Sass** : that must be why you’ve read so many books lately. Why you’re in school studying. Because you find intellect gratifying.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : your arms must get tired carrying your soap box around all the time.  
>  **Sass** : its because your attitude about life is literally mind-boggling. You have every advantage and every opportunity available to anyone. You could be going to any school in the country or the world since you know a dozen languages. You claim to have a genius level IQ but you—get drunk and film yourself falling over.  
>  **Sass** : what good is that doing for society?  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : why am I obligated to do anything good for society? Because I’m smart? Because I’m rich? Because I have an audience?  
>  **Sass** : because you’re a PERSON, mostly. We all have an individual responsibility to contribute to making a better world. The fact that you’re rich, famous and a genius means that you have less excuses than most as to why you can’t.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : I was actually just trying to flirt with you  
>  **Sass** : I am aware.  
>  **Sass** : I react poorly to flirting.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : I am actually now confused as to how we ever had sex. Flirting is usually a part of the process. Did we fight? I bet we fought.  
>  **Sass** : You complained, I countered.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : so we fought.  
>  **Sass** : Yes. But I’m serious. Do something good for the world.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : like what? I already give away enough money I should be exempt from your wrath.  
>  **Sass** : like—something that you do. Something that isn’t just throwing money at people. Go tutor a kid or something.  
>  **Sass** : Tutor a kid.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : Why would anyone let me near a child?  
>  **Sass** : How did you just make sixty points? HOW.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : Maybe I should tutor you.  
>  **Sass** : Fuck you.  
>  **Sass** : Don’t say it.  
>  **Sass** : I should study.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : if you should study, then go and study. I’m finding myself in sudden possession of high standards.  
>  **Sass** : good. Might keep you from sleeping with more maids and women named Jessica.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : study, don’t have sex with idiots.

Malik didn’t actually do any studying. He fell asleep in a heap on his bed, with the computer cord wrapped around one of his forearms and his textbook spread out across his pillow. His alarm woke him up with a shrill shriek that was a dire warning against being late. His head was throbbing from exhaustion as he rolled over onto his pencil case and got stabbed a few dozen times by the pens that had fallen out of the zipper pouch. 

It seemed like, whether he stayed in bed or dragged himself up and out to class, that he would be effectively asleep. He would be infinitely more comfortable in his bed but he couldn’t silence the nagging voice in the back of the head that called him names until he got out of bed. His clothes were suffering from one-too-many bad choices about whether to do laundry or waste his time on the internet. The shirt he found was the one that most closely resembled clean and the pants were the ones that had the least offensive odor. He packed his bag and zombie-walked his way to his class.

In the back (where he rarely ever sat) he propped his face up on his fist and listened to the drone of his professor and the worried chirps of the students growing steadily more anxious about the finals that were coming up. 

\--

MariaThorpe: not even a phone call to tell me you were leaving @son-of-no-one? (37m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I didn’t think we were that sort of friends @MariaThorpe. (10m ago)

April brought a lot of rain but it also ushered in a change in weather that made returning to the east coast less of a hassle. Altair liked the air when it hovered between the cool of early spring and the oppressive heat of summer. It was the sort of day where someone could wear a jacket or not and be perfectly comfortable either way.

“I think I’m going to call the trainer again,” Altair said after they’d finished running for the day and he was feeling all loose-and-limber. He hadn’t neglected his workout regime (altogether) but he had definitely fallen out of the habit of following it. There was no overt lack of muscle tone or addition of flab but the general feeling that he could look better if he exerted a little effort. (And the feeling that he was doing nothing at all, really, and why not?)

“Yeah,” Desmond said. “I might go with you.” He was coated in sweat that he kept wiping on his shirt that was hanging over his shoulder. He looked down at his own body and frowned but covered it with a shrug. 

“Training to keep up with Lucy?” Altair asked. 

Desmond laughed. “Yeah. Pretty much.” Then he wiped his face again. “I should also give up dessert and rediscover salad and chicken. I hate your damn metabolism.” He reached out and pinched Altair’s waist and that made him frown all the more. “ _Hate_.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> It’s three AM here.
> 
> 4 here
> 
> I can’t even see the screene anymore
> 
> yup
> 
> This is stupd
> 
> going to start turning my phone off at night
> 
> I’m going to fail my finals
> 
> hey, your boyfriend’s rich it’ll be fine
> 
> Education’s for poor people

Kadar shoved the phone under his mattress because he couldn’t hear it muffled between the mattress and box-spring. In fact, he could feel it vibrate one more time before it went silent and he hoped that Malik either died or went to sleep but either way was no longer his problem. It seemed like the moron was better at dealing with his own issues back when he still hated himself and was in denial. Now he was all about reaching out and asking for help.

Kadar didn’t want to help. Kadar wanted to sleep. Sleep was too fucking precious and neglected by too many people. 

\--

GuyFawkes23: @Sass-Badger, @Son-of-no-one, so what’s your opinion about the Twilight movie that is coming out? (21m ago)

Sass-Badger: @guyfawkes23, it can only aspire to be as memorable as the book. (18m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @guyfawkes23, Edward’s not pretty enough. (10m ago)

EzioAuditore: @son-of-no-one, I am sad you have an opinion on this. (8m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, he’ll be prettier when he starts sparkling. (6m ago)

Altair decided to drive out to the estate because he had nothing else to do with his time. It seemed polite (the very least he could do) to leave Desmond and Lucy alone to be disgustingly cute with one another without him. It seemed even more important to ignore Sass for a few hours out of the day so she could pretend to study or whatever she was doing. So he drove out to the old house.

Spring was a nice time at the house, the gardens started blooming but wouldn’t have their full colors until much later in the summer. It was the beginning of the wedding season when people with big dreams and enough money to waste on stupid things found their way to the grounds to make use of the well-maintained gardens. Tours around the old house started in May and were an infrequent part of life until late August. If Altair cared at all about logic, he would sell the old home or give it to the historical society that had been asking for it since his Grandmother died. It was a magnificent house, a relic from the time period where extravagant wealth was put on obnoxious display. 

Altair went in through the side entrance and found Mrs. Finch sitting in the kitchen looking over her planner at the big table. The nothing around her was as heavy as the old house in a constant state of settling. He cleared his throat and she looked up at him with a half-smile. “Hey,” he said.

Mrs. Finch closed the book and pressed her hand across the cover of it. “You are looking thin.”

“I’m sorry,” Altair said. It didn’t feel like the reason he’d come all the way out here. But he didn’t feel like it was the wrong thing to have done once he said it. “It wasn’t your fault and I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did when you told me. About Desmond.”

Her smile was sad. There was an instant wet-shine of tears in her eyes. But her voice did not waver when she spoke. “Your Grandmother would have showered you with praise for what you did.”

Yeah, everyone knew that. Altair shrugged and came over to sit at the table. The corner was a pointed separate between them. Her old face a powdery-white memory of his childhood (always shouting after little boys who didn’t listen) and a right-now-reality all at once. 

“How is he?” Mrs. Finch asked.

“Good. He has a girlfriend now. He’s—good. He’s better than I’ve seen him in a long time.” Altair looked around the kitchen (shiny with disuse) and then back at her. “You don’t have to stay with the house, Mrs. Finch. I mean, I don’t know if you’re waiting for someone to tell you that.”

“I grew up here,” Mrs. Finch said. “I worked her. I grew old here. I will be here until I die. This is my home for better or worse. Of course, it would be nice if these old halls saw some life now and again. It seems like that show Ezio’s been filming would be interested in this old place. You boys could come and liven it up a little, I think.”

“I bet he’d love that. I’ll have to mention it to him the next time I see him.” Then he motioned toward the door. “I’m going to walk around a bit. It was nice to see you.”

“Don’t be gone so long,” Mrs. Finch said. “Tell your cousins to bring the grandchildren by. It used to be nobody had a child in this family that didn’t have a party right here. Now I don’t see any of them.”

“I will,” Altair assured her. Then he put her hand across hers and let the touch linger a minute as he got on his feet.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I hope studying is going well. If it isn’t pushing my luck asking two questions in the same month, what are you studying?

Malik woke up on Sofia’s floor feeling groggy as hell with an imprint of a book pressed into his chest and a pain in his neck that no amount of groaning seemed to be able to abate. “You couldn’t wake me up?” he demanded back toward her bedroom where she was probably reading in her cocoon of blankets. 

“A train running through the apartment couldn’t have waken you up,” Sofia answered. She came out of her room wearing her maroon bathroom with her fluffy socks on and looked down at him where he was laying on his back trying to get rid of the awful pain in his shoulder and neck. “Is studying really so exhausting?”

“Yes,” Malik said too immediately to be believed. He rubbed both of his eyes and sat up with an unhappy exertion of his stomach muscles. “I just can’t seem to find the right balance for sleeping and studying.”

“Well that’s progress,” Sofia said. “You’re human enough to make poor choices. And human enough to lie about it.” Then she left the living room with a swish of her housecoat and went about making hot tea in the kitchen. “You’re a very poor liar, by the way.”

That was probably because she didn’t count lies of omission, in which case he was a champion level liar and all should revere his talent, skill and dedication. Malik dragged himself off the floor and into one of the chairs. The books he’d been reading had fallen off the table by the chair (probably when he passed out) so he had to lean down and pick them all up. “Did I miss Leonardo?”

“No, I called him and told him you were sleeping. I just sent him a message saying you’d finally regained consciousness.” She came in carrying the teacup with her dainty little fingertips and set it down on the ever-present saucer next to his elbow. “Do you want to talk about the real reason you’re forsaking sleep?”

“If I did, I wouldn’t have lied about it,” Malik said.

Sofia nodded her understanding. “Very well. Then let’s talk about something important.” Then she dug down into the side of the chair she was sitting in with her legs pulled up and tucked under her and pulled a book out. “Where’s your book?”

And if some part of him wanted to tell her that _this_ wasn’t important and that he’d rather be back at his dorm with his computer losing at Scrabble (again), he hoped that it didn’t show on his face (too much).

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Currently, I am pursuing a bachelors in history. If you’re anything at all like my brother, you might be saying to yourself: oh so you don’t ever want to make enough money to support yourself. Of course, if you’re anything like my brother you’re probably also thinking that the solution is just to marry rich. 
> 
> In which case assume that I’m going to drag the old soap box out.
> 
> I have taken up drinking coffee this week. I can’t decide if the shaking is normal.

The whole stupid thing had started with Lucy laughing at Altair because he had said that Desmond needed to go to the gym just to be able to keep up with her. That had coincided with them arriving at the playground where they sometimes did some manner of parkour (when there were no children, which was quite often). 

Lucy had said, ‘and you think you could keep up?’

And Altair had said, ‘I think I stand a better chance than him.’

Desmond had just taken a moment to appreciate the fact that this was his life. Assuming that Lucy did manage to stay in love with him despite his overwhelming number of flaws, the whole rest of his life was going to involve these two idiots getting into stupid challenges to prove which one of them was the physically superior one. He wasn’t really listening to them so he wasn’t sure how it had gone from bragging to the two of them hanging upside down off the monkey bars. Altair liked to have his life on film for posterity’s sake (or something) so he had a clear idea of how he’d been sent to get the camera out of the car. 

“I like that it was entirely necessary to take your shirt off,” Lucy said. They were doing crunches while hanging upside down. Her own clothes were sliding up off her belly and bunching up beneath her breasts. 

Altair laughed. “Don’t be jealous.”

Lucy reached over and pinched his nipple hard enough it made him shout in surprise. Then she was laughing, giving up (momentarily) on the crunches to hug her chest and laugh. Her hair was hanging down away from her slowly-reddening-face. The tips of it catching in the mulch and dirt as she laughed. 

“My God, woman!” Altair reached up and grabbed the bar to pull himself up to sit on the top of the monkey bars. “That hurt.”

“Whiner,” Lucy said. She didn’t pull herself up but grab the bar and flip over so her feet were on the ground and she managed to stay standing for a split second before she landed on her ass. “Whoa,” she said, “head rush.” Then she arched her back and tipped her head back to look at him. “Who won?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond said. “Tie?”

“Ha!” Altair said. He got up on his feet on top of the monkey bars. “Ha! I could keep up with you. I am a god!”

“I’ll punch you in the testicles,” Lucy said. “Keep talking.” Then she threw a handful of mulch up at Altair that didn’t even make it halfway. She sighed and stuck her tongue out at Altair as he looked smugly down at her failure.

\--

son-of-no-one: it has come to my attention that all of my poor behavior has forced @sass-badger into working overtime to keep up with me (12m ago)

Son-of-no-one: take the week off, Sass. I promise to behave. (12m ago)

Sass-Badger: I don’t trust you for a minute, @son-of-no-one. (7m ago)

“You know,” Leonardo said when he crawled back up the bed to look at Malik’s face. “It’s not often that I take being ignored while I give head as an insult, Malik.” He spread his hand across Malik’s face and pulled him around to look at him in the dull lamplight of his bedroom after midnight. His lips were pinked from the effort but he was missing the good humor of their usual attempts at sex.

“I was paying attention,” Malik said. He was fifty percent sure that he was sixty percent paying attention to everything that Leonardo was doing. The other fifty percent of him was also sure he was thinking about some terrible cross between his upcoming finals and what Altair giving head would be like. Because apparently he was very skilled at giving head to a woman but Malik had very little in common with a woman. “I was.”

Leonardo let go of his face, grabbed him by the arm and rolled him onto his face. “I’m too offended to keep giving head to you while you fantasize about other men but I’m not above making good use of you while you’re here.”

“Asshole,” Malik mumbled. He got his elbows up under his chest and pulled his face out of the pillow. 

“That is where I was going, yes,” Leonardo said. He leaned in across Malik’s body and kissed his shoulder and then his cheek and his mouth. “Can I fuck you?”

“If you have to,” Malik said. He dug his phone out from under the blankets and set it on the bedside table where it would safe from any inadvertent damage. “I’ll just suffer through it.” 

\--

> ###  Chat While you Play! 
> 
> **Son-of-no-one** : How did the studying go?  
>  **Sass** : I don’t know. I fell asleep. Then my friends wanted attention.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : How terrible.  
>  **son-of-no-one** : I just assume that you have ditched them.  
>  **Sass** : no. Everyone’s asleep but me.  
>  **Sass** : Watched the video with Lucy and the playground. I feel at this point you should know she’s inclined toward violence and protect your sensitive parts accordingly.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : well until she tried to rip it off, I didn’t realize my nipples were that sensitive.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : You should go study.  
>  **Sass** : You shouldn’t be attractive, rich and vaguely charming. But you are and I am not.  
>  **Son-of-no-one** : I tried.

Leonardo woke him up by shoving his legs off the couch in such a manner that made Malik clutch for his computer that he didn’t remember closing. The blankets fell off his body and the vaguely sweet stink of breakfast was so close that it was disorienting. “Do we need to have a talk, Malik?”

No. Malik sat up enough to get his phone and then fell off the couch in his haste to get to his feet. His computer was saved by the pillows that had already fallen but his knee and his elbow were not so lucky. He banged the side of his head on the table by the couch and then laid there. “I have to go to class today,” he said to Leonardo’s floor.

“I’m not sure if I’m proud of you for allowing yourself to get so distracted by someone or something that you are acting with such rash immaturity or if I’m annoyed because it interrupts the excellent sex I’ve come to expect out of our arrangement.” Leonardo nudged him in the shin. “If you’ve found someone that you’re falling in love with, we should not still be having sex, Malik. Even you should understand that.”

Well that seemed to be the motivation he needed to get back to his feet. “I’m late,” he said.

Leonardo sighed. “I’ll drive you.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> You are terrible for me. It’s four in the morning. I’m hiding under the blankets on the couch for the second day in a row, acting like I’m invisible because I’m not sure if I’m ashamed I’m here again to see if you’ve said anything new or if I wish I could stop.
> 
> Either way, all the time I was working to make you a more respectable person, you have been slowly eroding my resolve to be the best version of myself I could be. It all started with you. 
> 
> I’m saying all this now because if I get a B on any of my finals, hell’s fury will cower before my wrath. You have been warned.

Altair woke up only long enough to check his mail and was pleasantly surprised to find a new threat. He fell asleep again with the phone clutched in his hand.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> The caffeine has started effecting my ability to think.
> 
> Coffee is the devil
> 
> Don’t drink coffee, Kadar
> 
> I’m drinking my third cup today.
> 
> It’s really fucking good
> 
> It is two in the morning. Next time you wake me up better be life or death
> 
> Coffee.
> 
> Coffee is life or death.

Kadar got out of bed, went across his room, opened his dresser and threw the phone into the drawer. He slammed it shut, rubbed his hand through his hair, almost tripped over Sailor (and only barely managed not to) and stumbled back to bed only to discover that he needed to use the bathroom. That took him out into the hallway, into the room with the brightest lights out of the whole house and then back into the hallway before he could get to his bed.

His bed was cold by the time he got to it. Kadar snuggled into it, mumbled dirty things about his stupid brother and reached over the side of his bed to grab the cat that was pulling at his blankets. Sailor mewled gratefully and curled up on his pillow to sleep.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Duly noted. I will try harder to make you go away and study in the future. Of course, you’ll probably still just tell me to shut up and do whatever you want.
> 
> If it helps, I like you better now than I did in the beginning and not just because you seem to like me more. You don’t seem as miserable and angry now as you did then. So keep that up, it’s a nice change.

Altair called up Ezio to pitch him the idea of doing a summer-at-the-Mansion type of thing for his show and Ezio had been decently in favor of the idea. He was mumbling things about how to add ‘excitement’ that proposal and kept talking until Altair hung up on him. Then he laid around in his bathtub listening to music while he waited for a message. The day passed in a dreary quiet that drove him down to Desmond’s place where the living spaces were finally gaining enough furniture and character to be considered a home.

There was a giant wooden pineapple sitting to the left side of the TV console. Altair put his hand across the smooth carved wood and then looked at Desmond, “is this you or her?”

“Uh, I said I liked it and she made me buy it. I have no idea what the hell we’re going to do with it but she was excited that I said I liked it, I guess.” He held his game controller loosely in one hand and shrugged. “I mean, I think it’s cool.”

“It’s a giant upside down pineapple,” Altair said. “Made of wood. Turn the game off, find the channel with the decorating people. Do you have popcorn? I’ll make popcorn and we will improve your interior decorating failure.” He was already heading toward the kitchen while Desmond complained about his commands but by the time he came back, the TV was on and Desmond was slouching into the couch and watching it. “Pay close attention or I’ll make you take notes.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Pack a change of clothes for this week’s book club meeting.
> 
> I’m giving you forewarning so you can be prepared.
> 
> This isn’t an excuse to not show up.
> 
> Do I get to know where we are going this time?
> 
> No.

Malik had been making an attempt to study. He’d kept his computer closed and gone to the library where he could be observed studying amid the many other people who had put it off far too late and were slowly becoming raccoon-faced with sleeplessness. There was a boy across the table from him that was making despairing faces as he mouthed the words he was reading. Every bit of his expression was abject agony. It was the sort of face that Malik might have been making when he was sixteen: angry, starving and determined to make something redeeming out of himself. Seeing it from across the table (rather than feeling it across his own face) made him think of Altair’s stupid comment about how he didn’t seem as miserable anymore.

Clearly the idiot meant it in a different way than, too tired to think properly, recently addicted to coffee, falling in love with the unattainable and soon to be kidnapped into ‘having a good time’. Still, those aggravations didn’t seem as crushing as they once had so maybe Altair had a point. 

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> **Leonardo**
> 
> Are you awake?
> 
> I need your Mother’s phone number.

Kadar was never fucking answer his phone ever fucking again in his entire fucking life. He was never even looking at the stupid thing. He was only getting up to throw it in the fucking toilet and flush it down the god-damned drain and he would get back in his bed. Oh, and he was halfway to completing his plan (in his sleep-addled desperation to make the texting stop) when he finally peeled his eyes open enough to read the texts. His brain hadn’t even caught up to their meaning before the phone in his hand started vibrating and the annoying ringtone started echoing all into the empty hallway. It was Leonardo-not-Malik that was calling him and Kadar’s heart felt like it tried to exit his body through his throat. He was instantly hyper-aware of everything around him.

Sailor was leaning against the wall with an open-mouthed-sound: pink sandpaper tongue arching in his tiny mouth. The open bathroom door was a brilliant slice of light across the darkened floor of the hallway. The sound of his Mother’s fan was the only noise except the intrusive sound of the ringtone shattering the peace-and-calm of the late-late-night silence of his house.

Kadar answered the call on the third ring and couldn’t stop himself from saying, “what happened? Where is he? What happened?” It was stupid to assume the worst (maybe) because it was something Malik would do. For all he knew, Leonardo was drunk-dialing him for a hook-up because he forgot which brother was which. But he knew (of course he did) even before he heard Leonardo’s voice break through the phone. Kadar knew before Leonardo could even pass a gust of breath over his lips that _something-was-wrong_. 

“There was a car accident,” Leonardo said. His voice wasn’t what Kadar expected it to be. He was gentle-and-shaking somewhere far-from-here. The grief and stress in his voice as clear as the things-he-wasn’t-saying.

“Where’s my brother?” Kadar asked. He turned around to look at his Mother’s door. But if Leonardo was calling then—what? What had happened to Malik that he _wasn’t_ the one calling? “What happened to my brother?”

“Listen to me—”

“Tell me what happened to my brother,” Kadar said. (And he didn’t even recognize his own voice, couldn’t figure out where this cold certainty had come from.) “Let me talk to him or tell me what happened.”

“He’s in surgery,” Leonardo said with a sigh. The sound of his thumb across his forehead was nearly audible through the phone. “He—it—they need to talk to your Mother, Kadar. His phone was destroyed and I don’t have her number and they’re going to need to have a next of kin that can make choices.”

Kadar looked at his Mother’s door, swallowed back against the rise of something wet-and-hot in his throat. “It’s bad?”

“Yeah. It’s bad.”

Kadar swallowed again and licked his lips. “Do you have his wallet?”

“Uh—yeah. Just, yes. I have it. Why?”

Kadar didn’t want to open his Mother’s door but he was standing in the hallway with his hand hovering between his hip and the doorknob thinking about all the terrible-terrible things that could-have-happened. He cleared his throat to keep his voice from cracking. “He’s got a blue check card. Find it, find me a flight and buy me a ticket. Make sure you or that Sofia woman is there to pick me up and take me to my brother.”

“I don’t think—”

“Do you hear me, Leonardo?” Kadar said. His hand was on his Mother’s doorknob as his heartbeat pounded through his chest. “Do you hear my voice? I don’t care what you think. Find the card, find a way. Call me when you have the details.”

“What about your Mother?” Leonardo asked.

“Sure, get her a ticket too. Get a pen I’ll give you her number and name.” He spilled the information out without thinking about it and turned his phone off before Leonardo could ask him anything else stupid. Then he stood outside of his Mother’s door with his hand on her doorknob and tears in his eyes as he tried to work up the nerve to open the door. Her phone was going to ring in a minute (any minute) and there would be people from half-a-world-away (or what felt like) asking her things about what they should do because Malik-was-in-surgery and it-wasn’t-good. 

Kadar pushed the door open and walked halfway to her bed before he bleated out, “Mom!” in a rush of urgency that overtook him so suddenly it cracked his voice into splinters. There were tears on his face and a shake in his hands. But his Mother was out of her bed in a second, kicking blankets to the side and grabbing him by the arms. Her hands were on his face and pressed against his chest. Her voice was saying, “what is it? What happened? What is it? Kadar. What happened?”

The phone rang behind her and Kadar said, “it’s Malik.” Then he watched all the color drain out of her face. “It’s not good, Mom.” He was _shaking_ to pieces and she had one hand on his lower arm as she turned back to pick up her phone and frown at the number she didn’t recognize across the caller ID. She rose the phone to her face with disastrous calm. 

She said, “are you calling about my son?”


	37. Chapter 37

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad {whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> So what I’m hearing is that you want me to make responsibility for your choices? I’d like to think of it not as me eroding your intentions but helping you (re)discover your natural immaturity. I feel like I know what you’d say about immaturity but I assure that sometimes a little bit of immaturity is necessary to enjoy your own life. 
> 
> Good luck with studying, regardless. Do well on your finals.

Kadar packed his bag like he was never making it home again. His Mother had put her hand against his chest the whole time she was on the phone, like she needed something solid to keep her from falling over. Kadar had felt like he was going to shake apart at the edges, listening in as hard as he could to the tinny sound of the voice on the other end. The words were indistinct blurs of noise. Her voice (always so timid, always so even) had been a point of absolute clarity as she acknowledged whatever was being said. When she hung up, there were tears in her eyes and a shake in her hand as she pressed it to her mouth. 

“How do I—I don’t have—”

“His friend is buying us plane tickets,” Kadar said. “As soon as he calls me back, I’ll call Aunt Jeannette,” (who was no relation at all but a friend of his Mother’s that had watched them a lot when they were young), “she’ll take Sailor for a few days.” There was supreme calm to logic that stilled the shaking. A coldness that covered his whole body and left him with a perfect sensation of _purpose_ when he was certain that any falter would send him spiraling out of control. 

His Mother caught him by the face and pressed her forehead against his. She nodded and then cleared her throat. “I don’t know what time it is—”

Kadar said, “how bad is it?” But he didn’t want to know (no, didn’t _want_ but _need_ to know even if it brought that vibrating sensation of helplessness right back to the forefront of his mind). He wanted to think about the things that he _could_ do and not the ones that he couldn’t. Because he _could_ walk away right-now and pack-a-bag that would take him to where his brother was but he _could not_ do anything to help Malik. And knowing meant worrying and worrying meant he was going to lose his grip on _rationality_.

Mother licked her lip and wiped the tears away from under her eyes. The dimness of her bedroom provided her a cover for the redness that covered her face and manifested the worst at the tip of her nose. She sniffled as she drew in a breath and said, “uh, they know for sure that he’s will need to have part of his left arm removed but they aren’t sure how much of it. He hit his head but they don’t think he has a serious head injury. The seat belt did some damage, they are concerned about his spleen and his kidneys but they don’t know for sure how much damage is done. He’s in surgery.” She nodded. “He’s strong.”

Kadar coughed a laugh that felt like it should have been something wet-and-slick like the watered-down snot and the dripping tears that kept threatening to take over his face. He said, “he’s stubborn, at least.” 

“Yes,” Mother said. She turned and flicked on the lamp next to her bed. 

Kadar’s phone rang again and Leonardo was on the other end with exhaustion heavy-as-hell in his voice and the information they needed to know about their flight.

He went to his room and packed his bag. He packed the cat up. He found his Mother carrying her own bag with pink spots all over her face and the car keys clutched in her shaking hand. “Mom,” he said, “I can drive,” as he took the keys out of her grip.

\--

son-of-no-one: I’m awake far too early. I don’t like it. Who is even awake before eight in the morning?

They just-barely-made it to their flight. The plane was choked full of bodies with derisive, dismissive faces about how they had delayed them from leaving. Kadar didn’t glare back at them but found his seat on the aisle next to a woman with far too much perfume. He took his seat and buckled and watched his Mother politely sliding her way into a window seat three rows ahead of him. She was tiny in comparison to the seat she was sitting in, completely swallowed from his view by the seatback.

His sense of calm felt battered-and-bruised by the distance but even more so by the lack of visual of his Mother. (Because somewhere, not so far back in his head, he thought that Malik’s voice was lecturing him about how he had to take care of her. It was a spoken-and-unsaid thing of their lives: they had to protect their Mother who had worked so hard to protect them.) But there was freedom in being separated from her, a lifting of the weight of _necessity_ to keep her from falling to pieces. The relaxing fear that unfurled in his stomach felt like it was going to drown him from the inside-out. 

The flight attendants were demonstrating safety and giving them instructions but Kadar could barely hear them over the rush of noise inside his own head. 

He was thinking (please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up, please don’t wake up _alone_ ) on repeat until it felt like the only thought distinguishable in his head. What other bits-and-pieces of thoughts were just debris that was knocked aside. Kadar closed his eyes and rubbed his fingers against the arm rests where countless-other-fingers had rubbed before. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I don’t actually know what you look like
> 
> I’m the only six foot four blond guy wearing hospital scrubs in the waiting area.
> 
> Good

Kadar held his Mother’s hand as they walked out the terminal toward the waiting area. Leonardo was easy to find, standing by an advertisement for a line of purses, with his hair pulled away from his face and his shoulders slumping in exhaustion. There was a bruise on his forehead that was dark enough to look intimidating. The hospital scrubs he wore were an awful green-blue color and they were so large they seemed to billow around his body. “I’m Kadar,” he said and nodded at his Mother, “this is my mother, Lamah.”

“I would have preferred to meet you under different circumstances,” Leonardo said. “Let’s go get your luggage and go.” His voice didn’t seem to match his body and the way he moved didn’t seem to match the person that Malik had described to him. Leonardo led them through the airport while Mother turned her phone on and checked her messages with worried-hurried fingertips. Kadar found their bags and Leonardo carried Mother’s as they headed out toward the parking lot. 

“Who was driving if it wasn’t you?” Kadar asked when they reached Leonardo’s car. It was unbruised—clearly not the vehicle that was responsible—and he wasn’t sure what he’d expected until he found himself disappointed-and-angry that Leonardo’s car was fine and Malik was not. 

“Uh—Sofia,” Leonardo said. He dropped Mother’s bag into the trunk and motioned toward Kadar’s. “It was her turn to drive.” Then he opened the doors for Mother and him and waited until they were sitting. Mother sat in the back. “Have you heard anything?” Leonardo asked. “When I left he was still in surgery.”

“He is out of surgery and has been moved to ICU. They said they feel like the surgery went well, the amputation is clean and they were able to remove his spleen without complication. His vitals are strong and they are optimistic.” 

Leonardo nodded and looked over at Kadar. Kadar was looking at his phone but he could see the concern look on this stranger’s face and was annoyed by it. He looked up when the silence went on too long and the car hadn’t started. “Are we going?”

“Yeah,” Leonardo said. He cleared his throat and looked back at Mother. “After the hospital, if you need a place to stay—you’re welcome to my place.” 

“Thanks,” Kadar said. “Can we go to the hospital now?”

Mother’s reproach was soft but severe, spoken in Arabic almost too quietly to be heard. Leonardo was civil enough to pretend like he hadn’t heard it and Kadar was too angry to bother with an apology.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> You’re basically a girl
> 
> …thanks
> 
> How long should I wait after not getting a response to something before I get offended?
> 
> How long has it been?
> 
> almost two days
> 
> How quickly do you usually get responses?
> 
> Lately, a couple hours at most
> 
> Well. 
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> That does seem unusual but it happens.
> 
> Give it at least one more day, then get offended.

Leonardo delivered them to the hotel, stood with them while they got visitor passes and even rode the elevator with them to the fourth floor where the ICU waiting room was. The posted visiting hours were listed as 9-10 AM and 6-7 PM. It was only eight thirty and the assembled crowd of worried faces taking up seats in the chairs around them was too much to contemplate. The rules said that each room could only have two visitors at a time and that they could be asked to leave at any time. 

Mother took a seat nearest to the doors with both of her hands pressed against her purse balanced on her narrow lap. Leonardo hovered at Kadar’s side for a moment before he cleared his throat and said, “I’m going to go check on Sofia. She’s in room 325 and I’ll probably be there if you need anything. Or just—call me, I guess.” 

Kadar nodded because he couldn’t trust himself to speak and then watched Leonardo shuffle back toward the elevator. The motion drew attention to his shoes and the odd splatter of dark-stains across them that ran across the white soles crusted-and-red. (Blood, perhaps.) Those-thoughts were _dangerous_ thoughts so Kadar didn’t think them but they hung around the periphery of his other thoughts. He sat at his Mother’s side because Malik would have sat next to her with his back straight and his hand available for being held. His square shoulders upright and his face a scowl of concern and miscommunicated intentions. 

They sat and they waited until the clock wound down to nine and the rush to the door started with the first worried woman asking the telephone on the wall to see her loved-one trapped inside those doors. Mother got up and got in the line to get in through the doors and when she was admitted, she took Kadar by the hand and pulled him along after her.

The interior of the ICU was a foreign landscape, something that was confusing and sterile but _intimidating_ filled with robotic sounds (beeps and forced air and well-oiled parts rotating together). The rooms were divided by walls but faced by broad-broad glass doors that were all easily seen from the desk that stood in the middle. There were nurses behind the desk and in front of it and a doctor-or-two caught in mid-motion between one task and the other. 

A woman in pink scrubs intercepted them with a gentle hand on Mother’s elbow and said, “I’m Jane. Are you Lamah Al-Sayf?” she asked gently. And when Mother nodded, Jane pulled her closer to the open door of Malik’s room as she dropped her voice to a low and cheerful sound. 

Kadar’s fingers loosened from between his Mother’s as she concentrated on the sound of the nurse’s words. He looked past the pink blur of her body to where his brother was laying in the hospital bed with strings and trails of tubes and wires extending from him one way and the other. They were hooked up to screens and pumps, attached to the bed and to the wall. His face was half-obscured with an oxygen mask and his body was covered with a pile of blankets. The bed itself seemed to swallow him up and make him look _insignificant_ in his own body.

There was no clear, conscious decision to walk away from what was being said, but the pull in his gut that had taken him from his bed to this place (half a country away). He sidestepped the nurse and went in through the door. If he responded to her comment ( _don’t touch anything_ ) he didn’t know what he said. The interior of the room smelled like antiseptic and bandages. The prattle of the TV in the corner was stuck on some daytime drama that Malik would have hated. Kadar walked around to the left side of the bed, stopped at the end of the bed with his breath caught in his throat. Malik’s face was puffy and bruises. Part of his hair had been shaved to show the curved gash above his ear. His neck and his shoulder were bruised and rubbed raw but it was nothing at all in comparison to the startling _nothing_ where the whole of his left arm had been. The shock of the white bandages punched Kadar in the gut and it was luck (not purpose) that helped him find a chair to sit in when his knees seemed to go out from under him. 

Mother stepped into the room with tears on her face. She didn’t come around to Malik’s left side but stop at his bedside on the right and press her hand to her own face as tears squeezed out between her eyelids. Her sniffle was a muffled noise before she swallowed back her tears and reached out to run her hand across Malik’s face. Her thumb touched his nose over the oxygen mask and she brushed his dirty hair away from his forehead. “You can wake up now,” she said to him. “I’m here.”

The monitor over Malik’s bed chirped but Malik slept on.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I forgot the room number you told me
> 
> 325
> 
> Thanks.
> 
> Did he have his computer with him?
> 
> No. He left it at my place.
> 
> Right. Good.
> 
> Is he awake?
> 
> Not yet

At some point in between the commercial about air freshener and the teaser for the next episode of Maury, a doctor came in to speak to Mother about Malik’s condition and what the operation entailed. He glossed over a hundred topics about the quality of life and the importance of early intervention. 

It was noise (all noise and sound) that Kadar couldn’t make out because he was concentrating on willing Malik to wake up. The stubborn bastard was sleeping through precious minutes onward toward ten AM when the nurse with the bubble-gum pink scrubs was going to kick them out. The doctor’s voice got dim and Mother’s answers grew faint around the corner of the door when they stepped out to discuss more.

“Alright,” Kadar whispered in Arabic, “it’s me and you, jerk. Wake up or I’ll tell your internet boyfriend that you’ve got a penis. Unless that got amputated too.” Kadar waited a beat, “but that would solve some stuff wouldn’t it?”

Malik didn’t wake up then or five minutes later. He didn’t wake up when the nurse came through to take his vitals and smiled at Kadar like she _cared_ and asked him if he needed anything. Kadar smiled and shook his head no. She was gone again, out around the corner to offer the same to his Mother. Mother was standing outside the door with her arms around her chest even after the doctor had gone.

“What’s that fucking noise?” Malik mumbled. His tongue licked at his lips as he groaned and opened his eyes with more effort than it should have taken. They closed again almost as soon as he’d managed to open them and Malik huffed a sigh. “Turn it off.” The wires and strings and tubes moved with a sudden jerk as he lifted his right hand up to touch his face. His hand fumbled a grip at the oxygen mask.

His eyes opened as he squinted at the tangle of things attached to his right arm.

“Hey,” Kadar said before Malik could look to the left side of his body. “Mom!” 

Malik looked down at his left shoulder, at the white-white bandages and the swollen, round end of his residual limb. The pale-washed-out shock across his face registered as a wail of alarm on the monitor over his head. “Mom?” Malik repeated as he looked at Kadar. He looked right, toward Mother, and then back at his arm and then back at her. There was accusation and a disconnected reality to the way Malik said, “what _happened_?” 

“You were in a car accident,” Mother said.

No-but-Malik looked back at the bandages and closed his eyes. He pinched the bridge of his nose with his right thumb-and-forefinger as he grimaced. “I don’t remember?” There was no confidence in the statement and when he opened his eyes again he looked at Kadar, not Mother. “How did you get here?”

“Plane,” Kadar said. The grimace of confusion on Malik’s face made him clear his throat, “Leonardo used the blue card.”

“What car?” Malik asked Mother. “Whose car? I don’t remember.” He was feeling his head again, fingers grazing across the shaved part of his head and touching at the pinched ridge of the stitched together skin. “Tell me,” he demanded of her. “What’s wrong with me? What did they do?”

“You’re a mean-spirited dickhead,” Kadar said before he could even think to stop himself. 

Malik’s response was to stare at him but Mother slapped him. She didn’t have time to lecture him but it was evident from the pinched look on her face that she had every intention of doing so. In the meantime, she turned her attention to Malik. Her voice was sweet and soft explaining to him what had happened and what had been done in the surgery. She brushed his hair and held his face cradled in her palms. Her forehead pressed against his as Malik put his right hand through her hair. What remained of his left arm moved like he might have tried to hold onto her with both arms and _couldn’t_.

The nurse was there to push them out and Malik let go of Mother with great reluctance. Kadar hung at the bedside when Mother straightened up like forcing herself to separate. Malik’s hand fell back to the bed and he looked at Kadar with fear that he wouldn’t have shown their Mother. Kadar put his hand over Malik’s and said, “I’m not leaving.”

“Don’t tell her,” Malik said. The words were a rush. “Don’t tell her how you got the plane tickets.”

Kadar wanted to yell at him about being stupid but he kept it behind his teeth as he nodded and went when the nurse insisted he really must.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m caught between being worried and annoyed. On the one hand, you have never failed to update the blog except when you’re on announced hiatus. On the other, you did just threaten me a few days ago so this could be a punishment of some sort.

Kadar left his Mother in the waiting room of the ICU and went down to the third floor. The elevator opened to a deceptively welcoming carpeted area with a large sign pointing him in the correct direction to find room 325. The halls of this part of the hospital were crowded with linen baskets and blue machines that wailed in objection at being left flashing numbers. The nursing staff was going in and out of rooms and the sound of call bells was a constant annoying echo over the general din of TV noise floating out of the open doors of the rooms. 

Room 325 was open when he found it and Leonardo was sitting facing the door so he smiled and motioned Kadar in before he could knock. The room was cool to the point of being chilly but it was less intimidating than the starkness of the ICU room. The woman sitting up on the bed was bruised but not mangled and she focused her eyes on him after a moment’s delay. 

“How is he?” she asked. “I tried to convince the nurse to let me go and see him but they wouldn’t and Leonardo said we should let you have the full hour with him.” 

“He doesn’t remember what happened,” Kadar said. “I think the doctor said he should recover well as long as he doesn’t develop an infection. Are you Sofia?”

“Sorry, yes. I am.” She motioned at the chair on the opposite side of the bed from Leonardo. “Sit. If you want.”

Kadar looked at the chair and then at the bruising all around her eyes and the cuts that ran across her cheek. He wanted to ask her how the hell his brother had lost an arm and she had nothing but a few shallow scratches and he thought if he started that he’d never stop demanding answers to an impossible question. So he cleared his throat and said, “is it possible to go back to your place for a bit? I feel like I need a shower.”

“Yeah,” Leonardo said. “Yeah, of course. Is your Mother going?”

“No,” Kadar said. “She’s staying until after visiting hours tonight.” 

\--

son-of-no-one: does anyone else ever get that feeling that something bad has happened? 

Leonardo’s apartment was a cluster of things. Every corner of it was burdened with _things_. Stacks and stacks of things. Boxes and bags and tables filled with _things_. After the well-kept clean-surfaces of Kadar’s whole life it was a chaotic mess. There was even a shelf of paints in the bathroom and something metal leaning against the wall that might have been a part of a car (it seemed industrial in make). Kadar found Malik’s preferred shampoo in Leonardo’s shower. The stupid bottle (the stupid smell) in his hand made the hard edge of _reason_ snap inside of his chest and he pressed his head against the wall of the shower and cried.

\--

> **Mom**
> 
> We’re coming back in about an hour.
> 
> Do you want something to eat?
> 
> There’s the usual fast food places on the way
> 
> I got food from the cafeteria. Thank you for the offer.

The thing was Malik’s passwords were a predictable rotation of five possibilities. Kadar had figured them out early on and the ones he hadn’t figured out he was able to get around (for the most part). The password to open Malik’s laptop was number three of five. That gave Kadar access to everything Malik saved but none of the things he kept on the internet only. 

Leonardo came out of his room looking sleepy and half-awake, stopped in the space between the couch where Kadar was sitting with Malik’s laptop and the kitchen. He blinked like he just didn’t understand (kids these days and their electronics) and then he made a noise like a snort and a sigh all at once. “You and your brother must be very much alike.”

“Not really,” Kadar said. He brought up internet and went looking for Malik’s Sass account. He knew the name on the account but not the password. There was a good chance that Malik (being the careful and studious sort) had set up his e-mail to send the password to one of his other accounts. It took him ten or fifteen minutes to reset the password on Sass’ account. By the time he looked up from that, Leonardo had gone back to his room (or to the kitchen).

The inbox was set up to filter things out depending on their address. (Because Malik was efficient at all times.) The number of unanswered messages was intimidating to behold but the only relevant ones were the ones in the folder titled ‘Altair’ and the folder beneath that that said ‘and family’. Kadar wavered in his intention as he looked at the six unanswered messages in the Altair folder. Then he bit his lip and went for the family folder to find the cousin’s e-mail address. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
> TO: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]
> 
> This is not Sass. This is Sass’ brother. I’d tell you my name to make conversations easier and less confusing but my sister would probably kill me for giving away any clue to her identity. So, for lack of a better thing to call myself, I’m K. My normal e-mail address is Notyourbrother@gmail.com and I’m only mentioning that because she doesn’t know I’ve hacked her account. I’m going to tell her but not yet. I might need to talk to you again before then.
> 
> It seems like it would be harder to babble in an e-mail but apparently I was wrong.
> 
> I’m going to get right to it. Sass was in a serious car accident. It was severe enough that I’m not sure when she will be well enough to return to her usual schedule. Depending on what she decides, I’ll probably take over the website (in secret) for a while but that’s not really that important. But, the outlook is good that she will recover. She’s stupid and stubborn so I don’t know what she’d think of it but I think it’s important that someone tell Altair he isn’t being ignored. I can give you/him (if you give him my e-mail) updated information about how she’s doing but it is absolutely imperative above and beyond that nobody else finds out she was in an accident. 
> 
> And if you tell him, make sure you tell him to remember he made a promise to protect Sass’ identity from everyone. That means him too.

Desmond wasn’t in the habit of checking his e-mail on a regular basis so there was no accounting for how he’d happened to be sitting at his computer looking through his old junk mail when the new message came from Sass. A message from Altair’s internet-girlfriend would have been strange enough (outside of severe family drama) but it appearing after several days of absolute silence and Altair’s increasing agitation over that quiet was ominous long before he clicked on it.

“Oh shit,” he whispered at the screen. 

“What?” Lucy called from where she was playing his video game without him. Her protests about first-person-shooters was totally irrelevant after she started playing one. The game didn’t even pause as she said, “something happen?”

“Sass was in a car accident,” Desmond said. 

“What?” Lucy demanded. The game paused and she got up and came over to lean across his back and read the e-mail with her hair tickling his ear. When she straightened again the worry on her face looked a lot like anger. “How the hell are you going to tell him that? How—you can’t just tell him something like that and expect him not to do something.” She pressed the heel of her hand against her mouth and went silent for a minute. “How are you going to tell him?”

Yeah, well, that was a good question. 

\--

MariaThorpe: I have some suggestions for you to alleviate boredom @son-of-no-one (14m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @MariaThorpe, I’m sure you do. (10m ago)

Kadar remembered putting his jacket on to go to the hospital but he didn’t remember the ride. At some point he must have put his head against the window because he jolted awake when Leonardo’s hand touched his shoulder. They were in the parking lot outside of the hospital as the sky went gray over their heads. “Sorry,” Leonardo said. “I would have let you sleep but you’d miss visiting hours.”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. He rubbed his face with his hand and got out of the car. They were a couple of zombies, stumbling their way up to the front door and past the lady at the reception giving them the stink eye for showing up so late. The elevator smelled like hospital detergent and the ICU waiting room had the scent of decaying flowers. Mother was sitting by the window, half turned in her seat to look out at the sun dropping below the horizon. Her cheek was nestled into her palm and a spread of magazines was dropped carelessly to the side in the seat next to hers. “Mom,” Kadar said.

She looked back at him and sighed like she meant to yawn. “You do not look as if you rested.” Her hands were dry and rough against his face. Then she looked over at Leonardo who was dressed in his own clothes (and clean shoes) with his hair pulled back and a puffy darkness under his eyes. “Kadar,” she said to him, “you should go first. Your brother wanted to talk to you.”

“You got to see him again?” Kadar said.

“Yes, they let me visit him again. Do not be angry. Go and see him.” Then she turned her attention to Leonardo, to call him over so he would sit. Kadar walked away from the sound of her voice caught in a low whisper and the attentive tilt of Leonardo’s body fully facing her. 

Jane (the nurse) met him by the doors and showed him the way to Malik’s room. Most of the ICU had gone dim and quiet with only the blips on the monitors to disturb the quiet. The doctors that had been many in number were nowhere to be seen and the halls were clear of busy workers. The whole unit was settling itself in to sleep (or so it seemed) when Kadar went through Malik’s open door. The TV had been turned off but Malik was fully awake. The oxygen mask had been replaced with the tube that pushed air up his nose instead. 

“Hey,” Malik said. He motioned to the chair on the right side of the bed. 

“Hey,” Kadar said when he sat. It felt as if the very gravity of the earth had increased and his bones couldn’t sustain him a moment longer. He scooted the chair close enough to the bed that he could rest his arm on the bed and picked at the rolls in the blankets stacked on Malik. “How are you?”

Malik made a low and terrible noise, full of denial and dismissal at the very thought of how he was. “Better than Mom, I think.” Right, of course he was. He shifted in the bed so he could look at Kadar without having to turn his head so far. “What did you do?”

“What did I do about what?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Malik said. “I know you. What did you do?”

Kadar sighed and picked at the blanket. “I told the cousin. I thought if someone was going to tell him that it should be a real person and I gave the cousin my e-mail and told him I’d keep him updated. I didn’t give any specifics.”

Malik closed his eyes and pressed his head into the pillow. He scratched at his chest and the monitor over his head chastised him for doing it. The lines that must have been his heartbeat jumped and skipped before evening out again. “Have you heard back yet?”

“No.”

Malik nodded but didn’t open his eyes. For a moment it looked as if he had fallen asleep (and maybe he had. He had to have been on an amazing set of painkillers for all the damage done to his body) but his eyes snapped open in the next minute. He looked at Kadar like he was looking for a crack in the veneer. “You look worse than I feel.”

“Well, you have narcotics so you probably feel like Altair’s angry tiger jeans ad and I look like shit because I got woke up in the middle of the night to find out my idiot big brother never learned to keep his arm inside the fucking car.” Every word was a steadily growing fury that Kadar didn’t even realize until he finished and then a blush of embarrassment covered his face but there was a vicious-pleased-satisfaction in saying it. He wanted to find some handhold in the storm of his own confusing things to feel and without someone (or something) to protect rationality was abandoning him.

“Is that what happened?” Malik asked. “I don’t remember. I don’t even remember getting in the car. They told me Sofia was driving and some guy hit us. You think I should press charges against him? Sue him?”

“Yes,” Kadar said. 

“You think if I sue him I’ll get my arm back? Or my spleen? What the hell does your spleen do?” Malik tugged at the blankets until they were around his waist. His chest was bared to show off the spots where they’d shaved the hair and put the sticky pads for the heart monitor. His skin looked yellowish around the bandage on his left flank. There were bruises mottled all down his ribs and band of bruises across his lower stomach by his hips. He looked down at his body with his chin to his chest. “I broke some ribs too.” But his voice was so detached from it, as if he were surveying someone else’s body and not his own. “Mom keeps crying.”

“Yeah, why aren’t you?”

Malik looked at him, a slick-sliding motion of his eyes from gazing at the damage across his body to look at Kadar’s face with pity. He licked his lips, “I don’t think it’d help.” Which was saying nothing more than he was too fucking stubborn to care. “Why haven’t you?”

“I did,” Kadar said. 

“You’re not crying now.”

No he wasn’t. Kadar reached a finger out to brush across Malik’s stomach where the bruise was spots across his skin. It was hot and raised. “I keep telling myself that I have to be like you because Mom needs someone that can be strong for her, right? The whole way here I was saying that to myself. Be strong, do what Malik would do. Keep it together. You know?”

“Don’t be me, Kadar.” Malik pulled the blanket back up to rest across his ribs. “You actually deserve to be happy.”

That was the stupidest thing that had ever been said. Kadar rolled his eyes. There was no hope in arguing the point with Malik and absent the ability to communicate, there was only cold, calm rationality left to discuss. “Tell me what to do about your internet boyfriend?”

“Oh, you actually want to know what I want? I thought you’d already decided what was best?”

“I decided to do the decent human thing which you would have done yourself. I just need to know how many details you want him to have about what happened to you.” Kadar sat back in the seat and watched Malik frown at the ceiling. 

Malik laughed. “Tell him I got hit by a car so hard I’m a man now.” But then he drew in a breath and let it out again long-and-low across his tongue. “You can tell him if he asks. They said if I do well they’ll move me to a regular room. Something about infection and internal bleeding. I got blood earlier.” Then he closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep again. “I’m really tired,” he said.

Kadar stood up and shuffled closer to the bed. There didn’t seem to be anywhere he could touch Malik that wouldn’t hurt him or disrupt the medical equipment. So he stuck his hands into his pockets and said, “get some sleep, then. I’ll come back tomorrow.” 

“Since you’re spending all my money, go get me a new phone.” Then Malik opened his eyes and looked up at him. For a minute, the arrogant nothingness of his face slipped and there was honest worry. He pressed a hand against Kadar’s chest. “Don’t act like this is the end of something. One of us has to be optimistic and you know that’s not me.”

“I’m not leaving,” Kadar said. Since it needed to be said _now_ before any of the stupid adults could make plans without him. “Tell Mom, she can’t make me go because I’m not leaving until you do.” And since Malik had that look on his face like he was going to lecture someone about school and dedication and obligations, Kadar put his hand over Malik’s and said, “I _am not_ leaving.” But not _you need me_. 

Malik sighed. “Fine,” he said.

Mother came into the room with a quiet pink look and smiled at Malik. Kadar motioned back toward the door. “I’m going to go, let Leonardo come in for a minute.”

\--

> FROM: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]  
> TO: K [Notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> I am very sorry to hear about your sister’s accident. I hope that she’ll recover quickly and without complications. When I tell him, he will inevitably have the need to contact you. I’m giving you fair warning so you will know to expect it. 
> 
> Again, I’m very sorry. If there’s anything that we can do to help, please let us know.

Desmond went alone. Lucy might have been a helpful addition (for his own nerves) but he wasn’t certain that her presence would help Altair in any way. He let himself in and found Altair in the kitchen eating ice cream out of the carton while he sat on the counter with his foot on the chair in front of him. He was shirtless and covered in a faint sweat. “I’m not sure this is appropriate post-work-out behavior,” Desmond said.

“Eh,” Altair said. “I didn’t want to cook anything. Did you guys make dinner?”

“Not yet.” Desmond drew in a breath and let it out again. There was no _good_ or _easy_ way to say what he had to say, so he just blurted it out: “Sass’ brother sent me a message.” The flinch of irritation that cross Altair’s face was so immediate that the jealousy it exuded was nearly laughable. “Sass was in a car accident and she’s hurt.”

“ _What_ ,” Altair shouted at him. He dropped the ice cream to the side and knocked the chair over getting to his feet. “What kind of car accident? What kind of hurt? Where is she? Is she okay?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond said quietly. It seemed important to speak quietly when Altair was shouting at him. He put his hands up Altair’s shoulders and got them knocked away. So he reached up to grab Altair by the shoulders again even as his idiot cousin started going through screens on his phone. “Listen,” Desmond said. “I don’t know that much about what happened but her brother gave me his e-mail so you can talk to him and he can keep you updated.”

“What is it?” Altair demanded.

“She doesn’t want anyone else to know about the accident,” Desmond said. 

“Why? What is wrong with this woman’s brain? What is _wrong_ with her and the stupid need for anonymity? What’s the brother’s e-mail address?” Altair shrugged him off again. “What? Why are you looking at me like that? What the hell is the brother’s e-mail so I can find out what happened and how she is and—” When Desmond didn’t give him the name immediately, Altair turned away from him and went toward the front door. “Do you not remember it? Is it on your computer?”

“Altair,” Desmond said. “You aren’t going to be able to see her.” Because it needed to be said before anything else was done. Altair was by the front door with his hand on the knob, staring down at his fist twisting around it. He slammed the door so hard it rattled against the frame. He pressed his head against the door and turned it away from Desmond. For a moment, he was completely still as if he had simply turned off everything inside of his head and attained perfect peace. “You made her a promise.”

The answer was a half-audible, “I know.” He didn’t move for another moment and when he did, he came back to the kitchen with the same automated lifelessness that had carried him through the assault against their family. “But I need to know she’s going to be okay. I need to know anything besides there was a car accident and she’s hurt. How hurt? How serious? How is this going to affect her life? Is she going to get out in time to do her finals, has she lost her face or her leg or—what kind of half-assed information is that? She was in a car wreck is anything from whiplash to dismemberment! Yeah, I know that I can’t see her because I’m not good enough yet or whatever her fucking reasoning is—”

“That’s not her reasoning,” Desmond said. He put his hand on Altair’s shoulder and wasn’t shoved off again. So he put his other hand on his arm and pulled him close enough to hug him. “Breathe a minute.”

“I hate this,” Altair said. Then, “can I have his e-mail now?”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
> TO: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> How is she? What happened? How are you?
> 
> I know that I can’t ask to see her but if there is anything that I can offer or do, please let me know. 

Kadar was exhausted by the time they got home. He’d sat in the waiting room trying to sort out the things he felt and the ugly black anger that was coiling up in his gut. He was putting away the thoughts that had no places and trying to work through the uncertainty of his brother’s deadened reaction. Mother and Leonardo had come out again and they had all gone back to Leonardo’s apartment. There was cold sandwiches for dinner and the welcoming darkness of night. Mother slept in Leonardo’s room on the bed because Leonardo insisted.

Leonardo laid on the floor in his living room with a pillow and a blanket, staring up at the ceiling. Kadar sat on the corner of the couch, staring at the e-mail he didn’t think he could answer. “Your brother sits in that same spot. With that same computer. Making that same exact expression.”

“He really likes you. I mean, as a friend. All my life, I never even noticed that he didn’t have friends, you know? All my life I didn’t know he hated himself and he wanted to die. All my life, I just knew him as my big brother. He protected me and he annoyed me and he was always there for me. I remember him sitting outside of this closet door where I hid when I hated him and he used to tell me stories and bribe me with cookies. I’m not saying he was happy about it or that he was a saint but he never let me be unhappy. He never let me blame myself. He never let me think I deserved to be hurt or sad. I didn’t know.”

Leonardo sat up with his legs crossed in front of him and rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. He had long-long fingers that were pale in the dim light of the room. And his eyes were very bright. “You’re afraid because you know this is going to be long and ugly and difficult.”

“Yes,” Kadar said. It was like a little bleat, a sudden spastic sound that was there-and-gone. 

“It will be,” Leonardo said. Because what was the point in trying to lie? “But I think the important thing for you to do is take the time you need to figure out how you feel because you can’t be there for him if you aren’t good with yourself.”

“I don’t know how I feel,” Kadar said.

“That’s fine. Right now you should finish whatever you’re doing there and sleep if you can.” Leonardo looked at him for another minute and then laid back down. “But you do look a lot like him, right now.”

“Ha, you should see his desk at home. Hey, tomorrow after we go see him in the morning, I need to go somewhere and get him a new phone. Could you take me somewhere?” 

“Sure,” Leonardo said. “But sleep first.”

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
> TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Sass was in the backseat of a car that was struck on the side by another car that ran a red light. Her arm was pinned between the two cars and they weren’t able to save it. There’s a lot of bruising, a few broken ribs and they had to remove her spleen. Right now she’s high on painkillers and—well, if you’ve spent any time talking to her at all she’s a lot like that. Stubborn, stupid, acting like she doesn’t care about anything. She’s in the ICU right now but they think she’ll be fine.
> 
> I don’t know what I’ll need from you yet. Except that I need you to act like nothing’s changed on the internet. I’m going to take over the website for a while because it’s important to her even if she’s not able to admit it. But, I don’t know. I’m exhausted right now I can’t think but I’ll send you a message in the morning with updates. 
> 
> Thanks for caring, I guess. That means a lot.

Desmond was a pest that wouldn’t leave. Lucy had shown up as quiet as a mouse sneaking in under the door and brought dinner with her. But it sat in the kitchen on the table going cold while Altair sat out on his balcony listening to the late-night traffic passing by on the street.

“Fuck,” he whispered at his phone. He squeezed his eyes shut and tightened his grip around the phone until it was creaking between his fingers but he couldn’t make himself care. When he opened his eyes again, the world was still dark and the traffic was still creeping past. Nothing at all had changed save for the (acute, painful) knowledge that he wanted to be somewhere he couldn’t be.


	38. Chapter 38

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [Notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m sorry to hear you couldn’t sleep. I didn’t do very well myself. 
> 
> I think she picks the one that suits her mood. Really, pick anything. I honestly do not care.
> 
> _K wrote_ :  
>  I don’t even know why I’m writing to you. It’s not even light outside and I can’t sleep anymore so I thought I would just get some stuff set up for the blog. My stupid sister doesn’t realize it but there’s a feature that posts entries on a schedule. Found myself reading through an embarrassing number of sex Saturday submissions and I feel like I know an uncomfortable number of details about your personal life. How does she pick one of these? 

Leonardo found him out on the balcony. He came out with his feet shuffling against the ground and that bruise on his head looking worse for having matured overnight. There were two cups in his hand, one that was steaming and one that was cool. Kadar looked up at him only when the shadow loomed across his shoulder for a second too long to be comfortable. “I have coffee and cold tea. Take your pick.”

“Tea is fine,” Kadar said. He accepted the drink and sipped it while Leonardo situated himself in the lawn chair opposite him. His long limbs loomed absurd in the tiny chair. 

There was quiet for a moment. Kadar finished adding the tags to his first two posts for the Sett. He had chosen to do a late sex Saturday rather than a Happy Hater because he found nothing at all amusing about the practice of picking the meanest comment to feature every week. 

“I was talking to your Mother yesterday,” Leonardo said. He stretched out his legs in front of him, crossed them at the ankle and rubbed at his shoulder. Sleeping on the floor approximately twenty four hours after getting into a serious car accident couldn’t have been a great idea. “We were discussing what would happen whenever Malik was released from the hospital. It’ll probably be a week or two before that’s a real concern but she can’t stay and your brother probably will not be able to travel comfortably so soon.”

“I’m not leaving my brother,” Kadar said. He hit the submit button on the post and closed the computer. “Did that factor into the discussion?”

“Your Mother said something about it. I told her that I have a lease on this place until July and I would keep both of you until then, if necessary.” He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced at the taste before setting it down against his leg. “Might have to invest in an air mattress, though.” 

“Do you love my brother?” Kadar asked.

Leonardo smiled. “I do love your brother. It’s not a romantic feeling.” He took another drink and gagged before unceremoniously dumping the entire contents of the mug over the side of the balcony. “I love him less knowing he can drink that.” Leonardo got up and went to get a different drink, returned with a relieved sigh and a glass of tea. “As I was saying. I do love your brother. You are welcome to stay. I will help in whatever manner I can.”

“Thanks,” Kadar said.

\--

> ###  _May 06, 2008_ : Sexy ~~Saturdays~~ Tuesday 016: buy some Ajax and move on
> 
> This is late. Be sure to tell me about in the comments. The cat’s been getting hungry. The normal Monday feature will not happen this week, check back next week. You can tell me how you feel that’s unacceptable as well.
> 
> “I have a great story about Altair the dick. Notice how I didn’t say Altair’s dick because if this was a story about that it would be entirely different. Because someone should compose some serious, in-depth epic poems about that monster. But I’m getting off course. What I mean to say is that I met Altair in the most expected place ever. That is to say a club. He was charming enough to be considered a good bed partner but let me be honest, I did not follow him back to his five star hotel because I liked the things he was saying. I was very interested in the obvious bulge in his pants. 
> 
> So we had been drinking together. We took a cab like responsible drunks and he showed me around his hotel. It was amazing. We were going to go swimming but I wanted to have sex so we went to his room. The view was spectacular and I guess this was after the Sass-intervention because Altair had muscle and it was sexy as hell to dig my nails into. So things were moving along and we ended up in the bathtub. So we had sex in the bathtub. The sex was great. I’m not sure if it’s just plenty of practice or natural skill but Altair excels at sex. 
> 
> Then there’s the next morning—or a few hours later. I wake up to find the prima donna standing in the bathroom having some kind of diva fit about his bathtub. He just kept saying: my bathtub has been defiled! And you don’t have _sex_ in a bathtub! I can’t take a bath in this! Look at this!
> 
> When I say that he went on about this for no less than ten minutes I do not exaggerate. Normally, I’m the sort of girl that likes a second round before she leaves but he just would _not_ shut up. So I left.”
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays, W: contains sexual content, W: Crude Language, I: Altair is embarrassing_
> 
> • **Son-of-no-one**  
>  Her name was Celia, we met in France and she neglects to mention the fact that the bathtub was actually destroyed. There was shampoo and soap and liquor spilled everywhere in it. But I should get points because I never pretended not to know her name. You should lose points for posting late.  
>  • **Sass-Badger [Moderator],**  
>  You get a point for not pretending not to know her name and another one for admitting this embarrassing fiasco ever happened. I get to keep all my points because I’m the moderator.  
> 

“I thought you were going to get a job again,” was how Lucy answered him. Desmond had spent (what felt like) two hours explaining to her that he’d been asked to go film part of Ezio’s show with him and the other idiotic cousins at Grandma’s old house. The thought of being filmed doing all the mundane activities of life did not appeal to him as much as a sneaky grip of nostalgia. Desmond’s memories of the old house were ripped in half down the middle but many of the times he’d truly felt happy as a child had happened at that house. With the collection of idiots that would be converging on it soon. (At least with Ezio who had never really suffered from his older brother’s growing indifference to family members not possessing the last name Auditore.) Lucy was washing dishes, half turned away from the sink with bubbles up to her elbows and a plate gripped tight in one of her fists. “I can’t just—leave my job. I don’t know if you’re aware but you can’t ask for a few months off to film a TV show and expect they’d have you back with open arms afterward.”

“I am aware. I’ve had a job most of my adult life.”

Lucy sighed and rinsed the plate before turning the water in the sink off. She rotated her body on her heels and rubbed her hands dry on a towel. “I appreciate that you’ve had a job and that you’ve been alone for most of your adult life but you haven’t been financially dependent on your job—ever. I am. Well—I mean, I’m _not_ really because I’m living well above my means and I’ve suddenly lost the ability to save money at all but I need to be realistic about my earning potential.”

That sounded quite a bit like Lucy wanted to have an escape plan if it became necessary. It also sounded a great deal like her friends who were offended about how her life had taken a turn toward unfortunate fame. “Ok,” Desmond said. “I want to do this. At least some of the time. I’d like you to try to go with me when you can.”

Then she huffed. “Is this even a good idea? I thought these pricks were the ones that spent half your life making you feel worse about yourself? I mean, I don’t have half the reason to be upset with my parents and I still avoid seeing them when I can.”

“I’m doing this because it’s something I want. I don’t know if it’s good or bad and I won’t know until I’m there. I just know that, every summer I used to go to Grandma’s big house and the boys would be there. We were awful and they were always mean and we always got in trouble. Someone always got hurt. And eventually, Grandma always lined us up in the kitchen and told us she was ashamed of our behavior. Giovanni would teach us how to cook and Mama Maria came for a long weekend every summer to play with us in the gardens. Those are good things, right?”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “But I still need to keep my job. Do you understand that? I can’t—I can’t just put everything on this. I have to be realistic still.”

“Ok,” Desmond said.

“Good,” Lucy said. Then she threw the towel on the counter behind her. “Now. You were very understanding and mature and we are going to go have filthy sex.”

 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Please be okay. Please don’t just stop talking to me. I can’t be there and I’m trying to reassure myself that it’s for a good reason but please don’t stop talking to me. I don’t care what it is you say. I’ll take anything.

Mother had not slept (well, or long) and it was most evident in the unforgivingly perfect posture she employed when she turned away from Leonardo’s car. They were alone in front of the hospital doors, the two of them reflecting in the glass and looking out-of-place as he laced his fingers through his Mother’s and tightened his hand around hers. No smile crossed her face but she squeezed back (just a little) before they moved forward.

They rode the elevator and sat in the waiting room only to be told that Malik was going to be moved to the surgical floor. Then they were given directions to his new room and sent along on their way. The elevator ride was brief, the nurses on the unit were helpful and Kadar and his Mother sat in an empty room on a stiff couch with their hands in their laps and an awkward silence hanging around them. 

If she wanted to ask how he had the money to replace Malik’s phone she didn’t. If she wanted to speak to him about the challenges they would face, she didn’t. For a long (long, long) time she said nothing at all. Until, suddenly, she said, “I have been thinking about my sons.”

“What about us?” Kadar asked. 

“I was thinking that I have raised two brave, intelligent boys. It has troubled me a long time about how I would part with my sons when it was time to let them go. I often wrestled with how I could trust that they would remember the lessons I taught them when they were out of my grasp. There is so much I feel that I have failed to pass on to you. There is so much left that should have been said. I am not ready to set you free.” 

“Mom, I’m not—”

But Mother’s stern look silenced him before he could object to her half-whispered worries. Her hands flattened her skirt against her legs and she nodded her head (just once) as if to assure herself that what she was going to say made the most sense. “I cannot stay, Kadar. You will not leave. The choice that I have, is to trust you are stronger than Malik’s malice or to protect you from what will strip the last of the stars out of your eyes. Do you remember what I told you about your brother?”

“Which thing?” There were hundreds of things she had told him about Malik and he wasn’t sure which of them was the significant one at the moment. (It could have been anything.) “Mom,” he said before she could answer. “I can handle Malik. I won’t lose my way.”

Then she pulled him forward by a hand curved around the back of his head. Her lips touched his forehead and she pressed her cheek over the damp mark where her lips had been. “You will call me, every day. You will not hide anything from me. Do you understand?”

“Yes Mother,” Kadar said. 

\--

> FROM: K [Notyoubrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> So Sass has been moved out of ICU. I didn’t catch the full explanation but the summation was that she wasn’t in any immediate danger. The focus now is helping her heal and trying to keep infections from happening. I’m pretty much going to be with her all the time for a while so if she’s not responding to you, just ask me or something. I have this feeling that she might try to ignore everyone or act like a bitch. Which isn’t that unusual for her.
> 
> Anyway, I did manage to get her a new phone. Don’t expect anything until later tonight. There’s supposed to a lot of people in and out today.

The thing was, Kadar’s understanding of the inner workings of a hospital were pretty slim. The last time he’d been in a hospital had been when he was being born. He hadn’t had occasion or reason to ever go back to one in seventeen years of his life. Everything was foreign from the bathroom with a seat in the shower and a string hanging from the wall by the toilet (saying “please pull for assistance”) to the many, many different hook-ups and neatly labeled outlets along the wall where the hospital bed would go. 

Mother had left the room to take a phone call (from her boss, most likely) and Kadar stretched out on the couch to test it out for durability and comfort while he tried to figure out how he was going to explain to Malik how he wasn’t leaving no matter what. When he failed to come up with something brilliant, he started setting up Malik’s new phone. It was halfway restored (he was using a contact list that Leonardo wrote up for him from memory) when the silence of the room was interrupted by a small army of people flooding in through the extra-wide door. There were two directing the bed, two with clipboards and one with a plastic bin full of this-and-that. 

The flurry of noise and activity died as suddenly as it began. All that remained was one single woman in scrubs that introduced herself as Debbie and explained to Malik how to use the call bell, communication board and TV remote. Then she looked over at Kadar and smiled. “You must be a brother?”

“Yes,” Kadar said. He stood up and came over to the left side of the bed, fingers skimming along the rumpled edges of the blankets (carefully aware of the damage done to his brother’s body). “My name is Kadar. I’ll be staying with him.”

“That’s great. I have to go check my orders and see what the doctor wrote. When I finish with that, I’ll be back and maybe we’ll get cleaned up and change these linens. If you need anything or have any questions just hit the call bell.” Then she was smiling her way out of the door.

Malik made a face at her retreating back like he’d never met a more annoying person. Then he turned his derisive glare back at Kadar. “So you convinced Mother to let you stay?”

“I didn’t ask,” Kadar said.

“What about school?”

“I guess I’m getting out early. I’m sure Mom will send me my work. I got your phone.” He motioned back at where it was sitting on the couch. “Leonardo gave me your contact list so I don’t know if it’s accurate but I did my best.”

Malik shrugged like he didn’t even care and whatever he was going to say next was cut off by their Mother returning. She slid her phone into her purse and came over to touch Malik. The lack of the ability to put her hands on him through the day-and-night before was evident in the reverent way she touched him and the pink-edged smile on her face. But Malik did not receive the affection gladly but _tolerated_ it. “When do you have to go back home?” Malik asked after a pause.

“Thursday,” Mother said. “I will stay with you until then.” It was best not to give Malik the opportunity to deny something. Commands worked best when you had the authority of their Mother on your side. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [Notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> Thank you for the update. What happened with the driver that hit your sister’s car? Is he facing criminal charges? Do you have a lawyer to handle the insurance claim? 

Altair did not want to attend the _planning meeting_ with Ezio about what kind of stupidity they could get up to at the old family mansion. He went because the alternative was trying to explain to the moron that he didn’t want to go because he was too busy worrying about the woman on the other end of the blog that disapproved of him. He sat through the meeting looking at his phone.

“Hey,” Lucy said when boredom (or disinterest) got the best of her. Ezio and Desmond were laughing about some stupid game they used to play in the house in those long-ago-days when they were the big boys and Altair-and-Claudia were the annoying ones that got locked into the upstairs closets. She elbowed him in the side when he didn’t respond with more than a muffled noise. “Have you heard anything?”

“She’s out of ICU, that’s it.”

Lucy bit her lip and moved her fork in a series of small, pointless motions that did nothing but make wrinkles in the tablecloth. “Didn’t you get a lawyer or something? I remember you mentioning you had someone protecting her identity, right? So if the lawyer knows who she is, couldn’t the lawyer send her flowers?”

Altair looked up from the phone. “That—is, I didn’t even think of that.” 

“That’s because you’re stupid,” Lucy said. “Are you going to participate in this meeting?” (Nope.) “Well then, you can take me home because I’ve had all the reminiscing I can take without alcohol involved. Let’s go.” She made excuses to Desmond and Ezio and dragged Altair out of the restaurant they met at toward his car.

\--

son-of-no-one: took up exercise again. Forgot how disgusting sweat is when you’re making it all by yourself. (10m ago)

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, call me and I’ll keep you company while you lift weights. (9m ago)  


Kadar didn’t listen (very well) to what the woman who came in to introduce herself to Malik was saying. Something about ‘therapy’ and the importance of ‘early intervention’ and then something about ‘being a team’ and how she would be back very soon to get him up and talk to him more. It was essential information to have but Kadar was too busy watching the boredom that mutated Malik’s face from passive to aggressively disinterested as she continued to talk.

If Mother saw it (and she might not have, since she was listening attentively) she did not react to it. There was no time for conversation between the therapist walking out and Minnie the nurse’s assistant walking in. 

“Are you ready for your bath?” she asked Malik (because she had no survival instinct). She put her hand on the bedrail and smiled at him with the full force of optimism. 

Malik’s reaction was to simply stare at her and then say, “no.”

“No?” Minnie repeated. “A bath will help you feel better. We’ll get you cleaned up and then change these sheets.”

“You misunderstand me,” Malik corrected (with such perfect English it was as sharp as a knife), “I will clean myself. You will not be present when I do.” 

The smile slipped away from Minnie’s face. “I think it’s a good idea if—”

“I didn’t ask what you thought. I will not change my mind.” It was spoken so precisely and in such a neutral tone that the insult was closer to blatant intimidating than the condescending rudeness. 

“Sir,” Minnie said. (She couldn’t pronounce their last name correctly, one assumed.) 

“Go find the nurse,” Malik said. “As fun as it would be to continue to argue with you, I don’t want to have this same conversation twice in much the same way I don’t want you misrepresenting my statements.” He did not motion her out of the room but he looked away from her and avoided looking at Mother’s face as she frowned so hard it was amazing the building hadn’t started shaking in fear of it.

Minnie left and Mother said, “You are my son.”

Malik tipped his head back against the stack of pillows behind him. “ _Most_ of him,” he said.

Debbie, the nurse, came in and made short work of sorting out the matter. She looked directly at Malik and said, “you are taking a bath. You’re going to need help until your surgical wounds have healed enough that you can move more easily.”

Malik pointed at him. “My brother.” But he didn’t look at the nurse or Mother. 

The nurse looked at him and then back at Malik. “Alright,” she said. Then she gave them a list of the things they could not do. (Most of them seemed obvious) and stressed the importance of keeping the surgical dressings clean and dry. She took Kadar into the bathroom and showed him where the towels and washcloths were, how much soap to use and where to dump the basin when he was finished.

When all the women were gone and the two of them were alone, Kadar dropped the basin of hot water on the bedside table and sighed at Malik. 

“You remember when I was like seven and you were nine? How you told me that I had to keep smiling because everyone loved me and one of us had to be lovable?” Kadar dumped three washcloths into the basin while Malik worked on kicking the blankets down to the end of the bed. His brother grunted a response that seemed to be an affirmative. “You have two days to be a dick to everyone and then I won’t be apologizing on your behalf anymore.”

“Save time, don’t apologize now,” Malik said. He shifted on the bed and hissed as he sat upright as much as he was able. The bed hissed under him and the rushing sound of air filling up hummed. 

“I didn’t realize you had your human decency amputated with your left arm,” Kadar said.

For a half-second it seemed like Malik meant to smile and then he didn’t. Instead he sighed and said, “are we going to do this?”

“Yes. You’re washing your own penis,” Kadar said. He squeezed the washcloth so it wasn’t dripping wet and gave it to Malik. “I’ll wash anything else though.” 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Now that I no longer meet your baseline for sexually attractive, we can finally move past the awkward sexual tension in our relationship and return to the part where we can’t stand one another.

Kadar was sent home at four in the afternoon. It was Mother, not Malik, that kicked him out or he might not have gone without protest. The afternoon was a busy time in the hallway as the nurses went back and forth. The doors to the other rooms were half-opened and the TV noise was spilling out into a great din of nearly indistinguishable noise. He was supposed to be downstairs in a five minutes to meet Leonardo to get a ride back to the apartment but he found himself taking a detour to the nurse’s desk where Minnie was sitting. His shadow went across the chart she was writing in so she glanced up with her sweet-smile that deflated just a bit at the edges. 

“Hi,” Kadar said. “I’m sorry about my brother. He wasn’t really social before the accident but he was polite, at least. He shouldn’t have treated you that way. Look—” because apologizing for someone else’s behavior was strange and uncomfortable. “I’ll be here with him so I’ll help him as much as I can. Just you don’t have to go in the room unless I’m in there or my Mom.”

Her smile was so indulgent. “That’s very sweet. He’s not the worst patient we’ve had. But I appreciate it.”

Kadar nodded and told her to have a good night before he continued on his way. Leonardo was idling in the turnaround in front of the main lobby. Sofia was sitting in the passenger seat looking remarkably well (and whole) and talking. Kadar got into the backseat and slid into the middle (in the event of accidents). 

“Hello,” Sofia said. 

“We’re going to clear out Malik’s stuff from his dorm room, did you want to come along?” Leonardo asked. As if someone had given him the permission to do any such thing. (It was a nice gesture.) Kadar nodded but didn’t respond to Sofia’s greeting. It was stuck in his throat the way the many things he knew were _unfair_ were stuck in his throat. That she had escaped the accident with bumps and bruises (and a concussion, perhaps) but his brother was missing organs and limbs. 

The drive to the university was uneventful. When they parked, there was a mass of students going to-and-from their cars. The dorms were squat, square buildings that were exceedingly unattractive. (Utilitarian seemed like an apt description.) Leonardo led them up the stairs to the third floor and down the hall to an open door where a skinny, awkwardly looking man was shoving his clothes into a big duffel. 

“Hey,” the man said. 

“Hey,” Leonardo said. He sighed once he made it through the doorway. “Of course it’s all packed.”

“Yeah, he’s had his stuff packed for a while.” The roommate noticed Kadar standing there and stared at him like he didn’t understand what he was even seeing for a minute. “Are you his brother?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “So are we just taking this all down to the car? This is it?”

“I guess,” Leonardo said. He picked up a bag and handed it to Sofia who slid it up over her shoulder with a hiss. Then there was a box with the words ‘return to bookstore’ on the side. It must have been heavy because Leonardo was pulled down by it. “You want to look around for anything else?” Leonardo asked.

Kadar nodded and the two of them left to take those down. The roommate was an obnoxious observer. Kadar considered asking him to leave but the man seemed to figure out all on his own that he should find some excuse to leave for a minute. Without him, the room was quiet. Malik’s half of the room was devoid of personality, robbed of anything that made it identifiable. That wasn’t even surprising. His bedroom where he’d lived most of his life had only the most minimal feeling of having been lived-in. Kadar laid on his brother’s bed for a minute, stuck his hands out to the sides—up onto the desk next to the bed and against the wall. He rolled onto his side and slid his arm down into the space between the mattress and the bed. There was a book shoved there, all worn out and creased from use. There was a magazine picture in between the pages (Malik made the habit of using advertisements as bookmarks). 

He set the book on the desk and rolled up onto his feet, lifted up the mattress and was disappointed to find nothing under it. So he laid down on the floor and used his cellphone screen like a flashlight. There was a manila envelope on the same side of the bed as the book that he managed to get after wiggling in under the bed. Then he took both down to the car where Leonardo, Sofia and the roommate were having a hushed conversation that broke up as soon as he got close.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]
> 
> It’s nice to know that you think so lowly of me. It’s refreshing. 
> 
> How are you feeling?

Desmond showed up in his apartment without warning, carrying a plate of food and a beer that he must have stolen from Lucy. He set the plate of food on the table and offered the beer to Altair who turned it down. 

“Do you think I’m shallow?” Altair asked.

Desmond sat on the couch next to him. “Does this have to do with Sass?”

“Yes,” Altair said.

“Well, I believe that since you are never interested in a relationship with someone it doesn’t matter to you what their personality is. You are interested in minimal conversation and a mutually enjoyable sexual experience. So you don’t look for anything more than attraction. In which case, yes, you are pretty shallow.”

Altair sighed. “But I’m not.”

Desmond shrugged. “I don’t think this is about you. I think this is about her. Her life was just traumatically altered, Altair. Maybe don’t take what she says personally.” But that was shit advice.

\--

> **Mom**
> 
> Are you coming to the hospital this morning?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Please bring your brother’s computer.
> 
> how is he?
> 
> Quiet.

Kadar woke up to the front door of the apartment slamming shut. An embarrassed looking Sofia stood there with a sack of breakfast hanging off one arm and a shameful pink glimmer to her face. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I—” She looked back at the door. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Kadar said. (But he didn’t mean it.) Then he got up and went to the bathroom to take a shower and get ready to go to the hospital. He took his time because the water was amazingly warm and wonderful. When he got out, he found Leonardo and Sofia in the kitchen talking with quiet-quiet voices saying things like: 

“ _I don’t think he likes me_.”

And,

“ _I don’t think it has to do with you_.”

Which was forgivable (if annoying) until Kadar rounded the corner and found Sofia pawing at the book Malik had purposefully hidden. Malik’s hidden books were sacred things (and Kadar would know since he’d spent a few years of his life finding them all and getting yelled at for his trouble). She was leafing through the pages and the rage that went through Kadar was so brilliant and _unreal_ that it felt as he could crack apart at the seams and a single endless scream would rise out of his gut. He tore the book out of her grasp and said, “you look through the rest of his things too?”

“I didn’t realiz—”

“No, you didn’t _think_ ,” Kadar snapped at her. He shoved the book into his bag and zipped it with far more territorial anger than was entirely necessary. “Don’t touch his stuff.”

“Sorry,” Sofia said (but it didn’t look like it was her first instinct to apologize). 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t think lowly of you. I would be a hypocrite if I did. But I believe in honesty which is why I am bothering to explain this to you. More than half of the charming women that have sent me stories about how you slept with them have included some picture or a link to a picture of them. On the submission form it says to list distinguishing characteristics like hair and eye color but they give me pictures instead. Assuming these pictures are accurate, you sleep with pretty, slim women. I was hit by a car. I am not slim or pretty and in addition to these qualifiers that remove me from your pool of sexual partners I am now scarred and incomplete. What I’m saying is, I wouldn’t fuck me. If I wouldn’t, there’s simply no reason to expect anyone else would. Especially not someone that’s as shallow as I am.

Malik was sitting in a chair when Kadar made it to his room. The bedside table and been rolled over to loom across his lap and there was a tray of uneaten food sitting in front of him. The atmosphere of the room was dire-and-cold, as if all friendliness had been sucked out of it. Mother was looking out the window and Malik was glaring at him like an _accusation_.

“Hey,” Kadar said. “Mom, I wasn’t sure if you wanted to go back to the apartment and shower or anything so Leonardo is waiting to hear from me.”

“Yes,” Mother said. She got up and picked up her bag. “A shower would be lovely.” Then she walked nearly all the way out of the room before stopping at the door and looking at Malik with a cross between the deepest pity and the most abject misery imaginable. “Please eat,” she said.

Malik said nothing.

Kadar huffed a sigh as he took his phone out of his pocket and sent Leonardo a text to let him know that Mother was coming. When that was done, Kadar closed the door and dropped his bag onto the couch. A pile of linens was sitting on the windowsill with the painful neatness of his Mother’s precisely folded corners. “Good night?”

The response he got was the bedside table being pushed away. It was a childish action that Kadar ignored in favor of finding the outlet and plugging the laptop in to charge. It sat on the end of the couch closest to the wall—close enough to see but not close enough to grab. Then he came over to pick up the big green lid that covered Malik’s plate and was uninspired by the breakfast he’d been given. “Why wouldn’t you want to eat this?”

“Your Mother thinks it’s because I want to punish myself.”

“Do you?”

Malik rolled his eyes. The asymmetrical cut of his hair made the action look like a failed rebellion than anything more serious. The bruises on the left side of his face had faded at the edges but the puckered line of the stitched skin was still a noticeable red. “I don’t like the food.”

“Yeah, but that’s not an answer.” Kadar picked up the strip of bacon and sniffed it. “Turkey?”

“Yes,” Malik said. He looked across the room to the laptop. “Can I have my computer?”

“Well, you could. But I’m using it and there’s nowhere to put it here since there’s all this food.” Then he dropped the bacon back on the plate and dusted his fingers off on his pants. He pushed the table back up to his brother with the tips of his fingers (wearing an annoying smile) and waited to be cursed at. Malik looked right at him (right at his eyes) and held the stare on-and-on past the acceptable length of eye-contact. Kadar didn’t flinch (but that was hard).

“I can walk,” Malik said.

“But not as fast as I can,” Kadar said. “Also I think I could get that window open and throw the stupid thing out before you could stop me. Eat your food. Mother has to go home in the morning and you think what she needs to take with her is the knowledge that her stupid son is starving himself?” 

“I am not,” Malik snapped.

“Yeah, well nobody believes you, do they? Eat your food. If you don’t like it then I’ll find a way to get you something you do like at least once a day. Until then, enjoy your—whatever the hell that is.” Kadar left Malik glaring at the food (and him and everything) while he went back across the room to where the computer was. “Any suggestions about what I should congratulate your boyfriend on?”

“Managing to talk women out of their clothes despite the fact that he’s a pathetic asshole who has too much money?” 

“Nope, not taking your suggestions,” Kadar said. He settled back against the couch and typed in the Sett’s address. “Are you eating?”

“No,” Malik said.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> You should not project your own faults onto me. I have enough of my own without having you add more to them by seeing things in me that don’t exist. I have sex with the women that I meet. I’ve tried explaining this to you before and you can’t seem to grasp it but I don’t actually care what the woman looks like as long as she’s interested and we manage a conversation that makes the idea of having sex with her interesting. What I’m saying is, you’re a superficial bitch that only sleeps with a particular sort of person. I’m a slut that will sleep with anyone. 
> 
> But if we have to talk about whether or not I’d still fuck you now that you’ve had this accident, let be perfectly clear: I would. The reason that I’m attracted to you has nothing to do with the nebulous nothing that makes up your physical characteristics but the fact that as much as you infuriate me—and you do—is the fact that I crave the ability to talk to you. There are maybe three people in my life that I think I would truly miss if they never spoke to me again and you—for reasons I don’t understand—are pretty damn high on that small list. I don’t know what you’re going through right now and I won’t pretend to but I really don’t want to get into arguments with you about bullshit. 
> 
> Let me ask again, how are you feeling?

Kadar was not sleeping (but laying down with his eyes closed, playing the world’s most boring game of the silent game ever) when the door opened and a nice man with a uniform on brought in a flower arrangement. He looked professional as he held up a card and squinted at the name. “Uh, Malik Al—”

Malik’s mouth opened to correct the nice man about his name when Kadar interrupted. “Yes. That’s my brother, Malik.” He got up and accepted the (heavy as hell) vase of flowers from the man and the card that went with it. The card was non-descript as possible but the flowers (mostly lilies) were so extravagant there was really only one possible culprit. Kadar set them on the wooden dresser-slash-entertainment console where they were cheerfully visible from the bed and then handed the card to Malik (who still had not eaten his food and thus would not speak to Kadar). “Do you think he was smart enough to figure this out on his own or did someone have to tell him about your lawyer?”

“How did the lawyer know where I was?” Malik asked. He took the card from him and slid his finger inside the envelope to pull it open. It took him a few minutes to work the folded card out from inside. The outside of it was an ink drawing of (what looked like) a badger propped atop a pile of butts. The inside was covered with tiny little print that was indecipherable at a distance (or up close). 

Kadar sat down and watched Malik reading the card. His face went from purposefully and _aggressively_ disinterested to a disgusted sort of snarl to a painful look of understanding before finally quirking up with a faint smile. The fondness on Malik’s face when he read that stupid card was worth more than the (undoubtedly unreal) price of the flowers that accompanied it. “I need to find a rich boyfriend that will send me flowers.”

“You’re not gay,” Malik said. He turned the card over to look at the back and then flipped it shut.

Kadar dug into the bookbag and pulled out Malik’s hidden book and brought it over to drop it on the bedside table next to the card. The book wasn’t the important part. The little folded slips of paper in between the pages were the important part of Malik’s hidden books. They were all his secrets kept where he thought nobody would find them. “They went and got your stuff out of the dorm. I got this and the manila envelope.”

Malik sighed and rubbed his forehead with three of his fingers. For a brief second, he looked very sad and then he looked up at Kadar. “I don’t want to do this,” he said. 

“You don’t have a choice, Malik. We can’t go back; we have to go forward.” 

Then Malik tucked the card in between the pages of the book and slid it off the table to tuck it up under the blankets on his bed. Once it was safely out of view he regarded his plate with disgust. “I don’t want to eat that.”

“Well, when I leave tonight give me a grocery list and I’ll bring you something you will eat. Until then, eat the damn food and stop being a baby.” Kadar retreated to his spot on the couch and Malik purposefully did not eat his food just to be an ass.

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t know what that card said but my idiot sister almost smiled when she read it. So thanks. Keep up the good work.

Altair wanted to feel better knowing that his card had found its way to the right place and that it had done some kind of good in the world. (He was also surprised at how quickly the card had gotten to its intended recipient.) 

But it was(n’t nearly enough) unsatisfying.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Can you bring a salad when you bring Mom back
> 
> Any particular sort?
> 
> Mom should be able to find a good one
> 
> Ok.

“Lilies mean, ‘return to happiness’,” Malik said. He had gotten back in bed after the therapist woman had shown up and held him do the stretches with his left arm. The nurse had come along after that and nagged Malik up to his feet and sent the two of them to walk around the hall a few times. That had taken the better part of a half an hour to accomplish with the way Malik shuffled so slowly. Dinner had come while they were out and Malik had finally given in and eaten it (whatever it was) so he could have his ‘damn computer’. Now he was sitting in the bed scrolling through the (slow) internet to discover the secret hidden meaning his boyfriend had left him. “That blue crap means comfort.”

“Your boyfriend is sending you flower messages telling you to stop being a dick to people,” Kadar said. He yawned (because he was tired), “so maybe you should stop being a dick to people.”

That did not even get him a reaction. Kadar didn’t press the issue because he was still too happy that he’d found a way to out-stubborn Malik into eating. By the time Mother arrived, Kadar was half-asleep and Malik had closed the computer and given it back to him. (Apparently, the contents of the computer were too damning to have around in the presence of their Mother.) 

Mother said, “what lovely flowers,” as she handed the salad to Malik. “Did you eat?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “Are you staying tonight?”

Mother nodded. And Malik faked a smile for her benefit. It wasn’t much but it was effort and that was more than before. Kadar picked up his bag and slung it up onto his back. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” he said.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I feel like this is a natural consequence of the way I have chosen to live my life. I feel like, everything I believed would happen to me as a child has come true in this one single instance. I feel a deep hatred for a god that I swore to myself I wouldn’t believe in. While others would seek to comfort themselves with religion in times like this, I am left with absolute certainty that the god I’ve denied out of self-preservation does indeed exist and that I am exactly the abomination that I thought myself to be. I feel rightfully chastised. I feel bruised. I feel concentrated hate so strongly I can hardly remind myself to feel anything else.

Altair read the e-mail once or twice or a few dozen times. He wavered in between a range of emotions (confusion and pain and anger) before snapping back into utter helplessness. There was nothing-nothing-nothing-at-all he could do about what was happening except try to find the words to reply to something like that. It was _physically_ painful to read. 

“Damn it,” he said.

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> She’s not into boats and she’d kill me if I accepted any money from you. I mean that seriously. She might only have one arm and walk slower than a lame turtle but she’d find a way.
> 
> I know that she’s very fond of watching you make a fool of yourself. I believe she’s also a big fan of your voice so maybe record yourself talking? I could give you the name of her favorite book if you wanted to record that? I know she watched that video where you sang Christmas carols about eight hundred times because she showed it to me about ten and we had to talk about your voice and distinguish it from everyone else’s. (Don’t tell her I told you all this.) If you recorded a bunch of stuff I could put it on an MP3 player or something. 
> 
> I don’t know. That’s my best guess. She really likes you. Do anything. Do it shirtless, she likes that.
> 
> _Altair wrote_  
>  What can I do to help? I don’t care what it is from more flowers to buying a cruise liner. Give me something to do that will help your sister. 

“Hey,” Leonardo said at some point between one in the morning and three in the morning. He appeared in a halo of light from the hallway half-dressed in some pants that looked too big to belong to him and carrying a large drawing pad up against his body and a black bag of what was probably pencils (or something). “I’m going to go sit on my car and draw trees, want to come?”

Kadar couldn’t sleep so he nodded his head and followed Leonardo out of the apartment, down the stairs and out into the parking lot where Leonardo sat on the hood of his car and started sketching the trees across the street. “You do this a lot?”

“Trees are new for me. I usually draw people,” Leonardo said. “Yes I drew your brother. Yes he was naked.”

Those weren’t even some of the questions he would have asked. But that was good to know. Kadar leaned back against the windshield and looked up at the little glints of stars barely visible above the lights casting puddles of light down on the parking lot. 

“It’s not Sofia’s fault,” Leonardo said. “What happened to your brother, it’s not her fault.”

Kadar looked at Leonardo’s naked back. The muscles under his skin flinched and flexed while he drew. The utter lack of damage done to him was mind-boggling. And some part of Kadar that could be ashamed was properly ashamed. “I know,” he said. “And I don’t want her to be hurt—I don’t want anyone to be hurt—but I see her and I think, how did this happen? How did my brother have his life ruined and she has nothing but a bump on the head?”

Leonardo nodded and then turned to look at him. “Your brother’s life is not ruined. You and I know that is what he is thinking and we can do no good for him if we are quietly agreeing. He is young, he is strong and he is stubborn as hell. There is nothing he could do before this that he will not be able to do after.”

“Clap his hands,” Kadar said.

Leonardo frowned at him. “I see the wit is a family trait. You know what I meant.”

“I do,” Kadar agreed. “And I’ll try to be nicer to Sofia. I know it’s not her fault.” Then he went back to watching the sky while Leonardo sketched his trees and the lull of quiet and companionship made him sleepy enough he must have dozed off because the sun was up and Leonardo was shaking him away with long-gentle-fingers.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]
> 
> My Grandmother told me something when I was a kid—after my Father died, when most of my friends were going to church and learning all about Jesus and what not. I asked her if my Dad went to heaven and I told her the other kids told me I couldn’t go to heaven because I never went to church. I said, when I die I want to go to heaven and meet my Father again. She said, ‘your Father may be in heaven or heaven might be nothing at all. I cannot tell you if god exists. I can only tell you that anything you believe in hard enough is _real_ and _true_ in a way that nobody can ever prove false.’ 
> 
> Don’t believe this happened because you deserve it. Don’t believe in a god that could be so cruel. 
> 
> Also, exhaust your hatred with me. I can take it.

Desmond found Altair out on his balcony, reading through a book that looked cheap and out of place in a luxury condo. It was science fiction (judging from the cover). Altair didn’t look away from him when Desmond sat next to him but kept reading until he reached the end of the chapter. “We’re supposed to be getting ready to go join the idiot cousins,” Desmond said. “I know you weren’t listening during the meeting so I thought I’d remind you. We have to go make sure the house is ready to be filmed in. Also, if it’s relevant, Ezio is inviting Maria to spend a week with us in June.”

“Great,” Altair said. “Maybe I should fuck her so she can move on. I seem to be able to drive anyone off with my dick.” He set the book down on his lap. 

“How’s Sass?”

“Angry. Sad? I’m not sure. Messed up.” Altair lifted the book up with his finger to mark the page he was on. “This is her favorite book according to her brother. I’m going to record myself reading it out loud and send it to her. I think. Her brother said she liked my voice.”

Desmond nodded. “You have a nice voice. Are you going to be okay to do this?”

Altair shrugged. “I said I would.”

There was more to be said but Altair went back to reading and Desmond reached over to clap him on the shoulder (good luck or stay strong, something of the sort) as he got up to his feet to leave.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Ask Leonardo to make pancakes to bring me.
> 
> Tell him he should show his stupid face.
> 
> I will

Kadar had eaten about half of the pancakes that Leonardo made and only resisted eating the other half because they were for his brother. They made it to the hospital with only a few minutes to spare before Mother had to leave in order to get her flight back.

They stood in the waiting area outside of the terminal with Kadar feeling very small and very incapable while Mother hugged him so hard he thought she meant to crush his bones. He hugged her back just as hard while he tried to talk himself out of being afraid and thinking _how-stupid-am-I_ because she needed to see him standing strong and not shaking in his shoes. She kissed his forehead and held his face in her hands.

“Remember you are my son,” she said to him.

“I will,” Kadar promised her. “I’ll bring him back, Mom.” And she kissed his forehead one more time before she nodded her head and left to get on the plane that would take her very far away from him. He stood there with Leonardo hanging in the background waiting to drive them back to the hospital, wondering how Malik had ever made it seem so easy to leave their Mother behind. Her leaving was a physical ache in his chest and the task he’d taken upon himself a burdensome weight on his back. But he turned himself around and went to Leonardo. “It’s just me and you now.”

Leonardo smiled and put arm around his shoulders. “It’s mostly you. He never listens to me.” And Kadar elbowed him in the ribs.


	39. Chapter 39

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I have exhausted my hate on your for years. You are too stupid to realize it. I woke up five days ago without my left arm or my spleen so I guess there are worse things than wasting my time wondering if you’re too delicate to handle what I have to say. I’ve gotten weak against you; I’ve let myself be dragged in and I’ve lost sight of the things that matter. You want me to exhaust my hate on you, I can certainly deliver. 

Walking was almost the only thing that Malik seemed to _like_. He had the catheter removed (and apparently that was good) and had a stand-off with the nurse on duty about whether or not he should be allowed to walk to the bathroom (and won in the end) and bullied his way into wearing a pair of sweat pants under his hospital-issued gown. 

“And another exciting tour of the third floor surgical unit has been completed,” Kadar said when they reached the windows at the front of the hospital. His part in the whole debacle was to stand close enough to catch Malik in case he decided to keel over. Thus far it hadn’t happened but that hadn’t managed to be good enough for the nurses that insisted he couldn’t travel unaccompanied yet. They stood in front of the windows, shoulder-to-shoulder looking out at the gray sky hanging over the parking lot. Evening had started to empty out the cars, all the people that had come for procedures, to visit relatives and to sit in waiting rooms with anxious wringing hands were leaving again. “Are you going to take a bath when we get back to the room?”

“The nurse said she had to come change the bandage on my arm.” 

Kadar nodded. “Yeah I know. I was there, in the room. Like I have been since yesterday. I never leave.”

Malik glared at him. “How is that going for you?”

“At first I thought, this will be so boring but then I got woke up at two in the morning by the bed alarm and got to stand in the bathroom with you so you didn’t fall off the toilet while you were wiping your butt so it’s been educational _and_ horrifying.” Kadar was tired and Malik wouldn’t _sleep_ except in the immediate aftermath of getting his narcotic pain killers (that the doctor today said they were going to start reducing and replacing with less drastic methods of pain control. Those brief naps weren’t enough to sustain a person.

“You don’t have to follow me everywhere.”

“According to the nurses either I have to do it or you have to let the nice assistant ladies do it. So if you want Meghan in the bathroom with you, that’s fine with me.” They started walking again. The shuffle of Malik’s feet dragged along the ground as the slip-resistant pads on the bottom of the socks stuck to the hard tile floors. “Are you going to let Sofia visit?”

“Why would she want to?” Malik asked. The question itself sounded so very exasperated. It was a breeze of a sigh covering an ugly tone. “I’m not being a dick. I just—why would anyone want to come to the hospital if they didn’t have to. She can just wait. They’ll let me out of here eventually.”

“Not if you keep giving that therapist shit,” Kadar said. He smiled charmingly at a family member stepping out of a room. She was an older woman (like older than Mother) with gray hair and an aghast expression at hearing _such language_. “Why are you giving that therapist such a hard time?”

Malik took a turn down toward the elevators and the sound of his socks was muffled by the carpet. The hall connected two sides of the hospital, the surgical ward on the left of the elevator and the oncology unit on the right. They hadn’t travelled that way before. “Why are you such a people pleaser? Why does it matter to you if _I’m_ rude to people? It’s got nothing to do with you.”

“It does matter to you. Or it did.”

Malik stopped, grabbed the IV pole and made the plastic tubing smack against the metal in a jingling kind of way. He was bending his arm in that way that meant the machine was going to start wailing about occlusion any second. “I understand that you’re here because you think you’re helping and that’s great for you but I don’t actually need someone to follow me around and tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”

As predicted the machine let out a worried long wail of noise and flashed a warning across the screen. Kadar pulled the pole out of Malik’s grasp so his arm straightened and hit the button that silenced the stupid thing. “You know what?” Kadar said. “I should _not_ have to follow you around and tell you what’s right and what’s wrong so how about instead of being a dick to everyone, you eat your God-damn food, you say thank you to your God-damned nurses and you participate during your God-damned therapy?”

“Amazing, you don’t listen to anything,” Malik said.

Kadar smiled at his brother, so sweet and so sincerely that it made Malik’s frown flinch across his face. “I’m rubber and you’re glue, whatever you say bounces off me and _sticks to you_.” It was a phrase that Kadar had learned in grade school that he might not have even bothered to use save for how it specifically infuriated Malik every time he heard it.

“I still have my right arm,” Malik said. “I can still hit you.”

“See now that’s the spirit! Think positively.” 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Let’s talk about Trey, Altair. Please explain to me how you managed to spend an entire day with this man that you most likely found highly attractive. You shared a meal with him, you invited him back to your fabulous hotel and when things progressed exactly as they almost certainly always progress when you invite attractive people back to your place—you react so poorly that you are compelled to spread your venomous and blindly hateful bullshit across the internet. You wanted that man to want you. You wanted to have sex with him. I care less about those facts and more about the reason that you continue to be an ignorant hatemonger as if you don’t feel like you have to change.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  Promises, promises…

Lucy had the morning shift at the coffee shop and that was why they were standing around waiting for her to finish passing out coffee at the end of her shift instead of already being on the road to the old house. She had the frazzled look that came at the end of a long-long shift and a sudden influx of unexpected customers. By the time she was officially clocked out and ready to go, she was pink with anger all around her ears and across the tops of her cheeks. 

“Where the hell did all those people come from?” she demanded once they were outside and away from the door. She stopped by the car to pull at the buttons of her white-white shirt and Desmond leaned across the roof of the car with his elbows against the window while he watched her strip. The shirt got thrown in through the open back window and she was left wearing just her white undershirt stretched out of shape by the day. “That doesn’t matter, let’s go.” 

The first twenty minutes of the trip were relatively quiet. Desmond drove, Altair sat in the backseat staring out the window, trying to figure out what the hell he could record that Sass would listen to (and how to respond to her). “Hey,” he said. He explained the whole thing, how K (the brother) had asked him to record a bunch of nonsense and if he could sing anything.

“I think reading her favorite book would be a decent idea,” Desmond said. 

“You should read Twilight,” Lucy said and when Desmond turned to glare at her for a fraction of a second she laughed. “No—ok, think about it. What have you done every time something happens with this person? You act like an idiot, you make stupid videos and after you’ve done that you throw in something sincere. I’m saying that what this person probably needs right now is that feeling that nothing has changed, right? So make an ass of yourself. Do something stupid. Fucking record yourself in eleven different languages telling dirty rhymes about shit.”

At which point, Desmond nodded. “That sounds like something you’d do.”

“Thanks guys,” Altair said. “Thanks a lot.”

\--

EzioAuditore: all the boys are going home for the summer. Well almost, we’re waiting for one more. 

BestofThree: @EzioAuditore, I am not a boy.

FedericoTheFirst: @BestofThree, already? You have already started?

Shirley-Templar: looks like it’s going to be a fun family reunion. 

It was two thirty, Saturday morning and Ezio Auditore’s twitter was a long, photograph-filled brag talking about how great it was to be back in a mansion. Kadar was laying on a mostly-uncomfortable couch with tears in his eyes because he was tired and he wanted to sleep but Malik was sitting up on the bed across the room fooling with his phone. He had taken the gown off and the white edge of the surgical dressing and the bandages that were wrapped around his left stump (as the therapist was fond of calling it) were bright even in the dusky dimness of the room. “Since we’re not sleeping tonight, want to pick the next Sexy Saturday story?”

“I thought you were doing that now,” Malik said.

“I can’t believe you’re not interested in knowing what sort of terrible stories exist about you boyfriend.” 

“He’s not my fucking boyfriend,” Malik snapped at him. The tone was so cold and terrible. “Just stop calling him that. He’s not. He can’t be. I’m a man. He’s the straightest fucking person on the planet.”

Kadar snorted at that. “Hey, you remember when I was like ten and that girl at school kept calling me Kaddy-shack and you told me that words could only bother me if I let them?”

“This is not the same.”

The computer light (when he turned it around to face the screen at Malik) was bright enough he could make out the dark circles under Malik’s eyes and the wilting exhaustion in his body. It was only sheer, dumb will that kept him upright. “It is exactly the same,” Kadar said. “I could call him by his name if you like. Let us talk about the many women that have had sex with Altair Ibn-La’Ahad and their various stories about how it went. We’ll compare it to—”

“Just shut up,” Malik said. He threw (did not set) his phone down on the bedside table before he leaned back into the pillows. His hand was moving under the covers to dig out that book he kept hiding by his right hip and when he found it, he huffed a sigh. “I’m sleeping now, so sleep.”

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Neither of your options are the correct one, man. Sass is angry and mean right now but this homophobia problem you’ve got is serious enough that someone needs to tell you that enough is enough. Because, your mistake is thinking that you’re harmless. You aren’t. Because you say one stupid thing about gay men and someone reads it and they think to themselves, _yes this person gets it, I’m not wrong and I’m not alone_. Hatred is like a virus and you aren’t patient zero but you are a highly effective dispersal unit, spreading your ignorance across the face of the planet. If Sass hadn’t gotten preoccupied with how good you look with your shirt off she would have told you that by now. Fix your shit. Stop spreading hate.
> 
> As for what to do with Sass, do whatever it is you think you can handle.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  I’m looking for advice here. Your sister is attacking me for acting homophobic and I’m not sure if I should fight it out with her or let her talk without responding. I could go either way. I’m not really that worried about my alleged homophobia because I’m not hurting anyone just because I don’t want to hang out with gay men.

Altair was not drunk but he was flat on his back in the old grand room where many-many dances had been held. The chandelier over his head was like a golden glowing sun and the floor beneath him was body-warm and cool all around the edges. 

“You are so high,” Ezio said with a high-pitched giggle that shook through his body as he rolled over onto his belly. He had lost his shirt at some point in the evening. There were bruises forming on his ribs where he’d gotten into a (friendly) fight with his brother that had only ended when Federico had fallen over and landed on his ass hard enough to make him burst into the same stupid laughter. “You are narrating.”

Altair tipped his head back and lifted his hand up over his head to catch a handful of Ezio’s shiny damn hair. It was loose of its usual binding and hanging around his face to cover the ruddy intoxication of his cheeks. “You’re speaking too many languages.”

“I am speaking one!” Ezio retorted. He rolled back over onto his back with a slap of bare skin on the dance floor. “The only language that matters! The most superior of all languages. _My_ language.”

Altair was giggling somewhere in the middle but when he rolled over on his belly he said, “you’re language is superior?” in Arabic with a chaser of, “there is no language that is superior?” in French, “none that you can think of that might be better?” in Hebrew (he was rusty in Hebrew), and laughed in the seconds before Ezio wiggled close enough to slap him. 

“You have a dumb mouth.” And then Ezio rolled back onto his stomach so they were two idiots laying on their bellies on the old ballroom floor with the golden sun hanging over their heads and Federico passed out in a corner. “You look sad. It’s a bad look for your face. You were made to be angry and sadness makes your face crooked.”

Altair shoved him away with a hand against his face until Ezio bit him and laughed the whole time he was getting hit for being childish.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m going to try to phrase this using small words that you can understand in sequence. I’d like to only have to say it once so please read carefully. You _are_ absolutely obligated to support basic human rights. I have no idea what the fuck happened to you that makes you believe you’re a magical exception to the rule but you’re not. The fact that you can dust your hands of your actions is actually disgusting. 
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  I expected something more original from you, Sass. Calling me gay is weak even when you do it with that amount of venom. But since we’re going to have this conversation, I am not gay. I do not want to have sex with men. I don’t care if other men like that sort of thing as long as they don’t come near me with it. If that makes me homophobic, so be it. I’m not obligated to support everyone.

Leonardo showed up with a pair of shears and an electric razor. The nurse on duty (a new one that they hadn’t had before) looked at both and listened to the explanation that Malik couldn’t make a useful recovery while he was distracted by how terrible his hair looked presently. She was indulgent about the reasoning (even if Leonardo did make it sound very convincing) and gave them a sheet to put on the floor under the chair and told them to be careful of the stitches on the left side.

“What look are we going for here? You want everything shaved off or do you want to keep this on the top?” Leonardo’s hands were familiar on Malik’s hair, touching his shoulders and his bare skin in a way that was confusing to witness. (Maybe Kadar had never taken the time to realize that Malik didn’t like being touched before.) 

“Hey,” Kadar said. “Wake me up before you leave. Don’t listen to my asshole brother when he tries to convince you not to.” He pulled down his pillow and his sheet and snuggled (as much as anyone could) into the couch. The faint sound of their whispering voices felt a lot like someone keeping _grown-up_ secrets from him. But it was a well-known aggravation to experience and hardly worth staying awake for. He fell asleep to the sound of shears snipping away at hair. 

It was dark outside (deeply dark) when Leonardo’s hand on his arm shook him away. Leonardo put a finger to his lips to mimic quiet and then he pointed over his shoulder to the door. Malik was sleeping in his bed and the unit had gone quiet and dim outside the door. “If you need anything, call me,” Leonardo whispered to him. Then he straightened up and crept out of the room.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Did you know that Federico could play guitar?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Did you know he could be a decent human being?
> 
> No, that’s new.

Sunday morning involved breakfast in the steel-bright kitchen. All of them (save Desmond who had to return Lucy when she was asked to work the evening shift for a friend) were hanging their heads off their shoulders and snoring through the delicious offerings made by Mrs. Finch who was positively _delighted_ to have them all in her clutches again.

“Did you say that Edward was coming?”

Ezio had his knuckles pressed against his cheekbone while he chewed (slow and steady). Claudia had her head resting on the table while she stirred her oatmeal. Federico was sitting at the end of the table, sprawled in his chair with a mug of steaming coffee cupped in both hands but his eyes closed. He peeled his eyes open with monumental effort to say, “ _yes_ , Mrs. Finch.”

Federico was the mighty-and-powerful (the biggest and the oldest and the meanest of all the cousins forever and ever) but he squealed like a rodent when Mrs. Finch smacked him on the back of his shoulder with the end of her wooden spoon. He looked up at her with wide-eyed offense but she pointed the spoon right in his face and said nothing at all. Her reprimand was understood anyway because Federico looked properly cowed and rubbed his shoulder through his shirt as he leaned forward in the chair. “What were you babbling about last night? Something about an ass that needs something?” 

Altair was having a hard time remembering what he was doing (besides eating hippo pancakes because Mrs. Finch thought they were all children) so he didn’t realize he was being spoken to until Claudia smacked him in the chest and said, “he’s talking to you.”

“What?”

“You need to record something for an ass?” Federico repeated. “You were talking about it in your stupor last night.”

“Oh,” Altair said. “Yeah, Sass not ass. She—is not—she’s just not well right now. So I was going to record some stuff for her.”

Ezio lifted his head long enough to squint at Altair before dropping his head down against his knuckles again. “What kind of stuff?”

“You should sing for her,” Claudia said. She was yawning in between her words. “You have a decent sounding voice and it’ll be something personal and unique. Unless you were just going to tell dick jokes or something.” She turned her face against her arm and beat her forehead against her forearm. “I hate you all. Why did I let you drag me into your stupidity?”

“Oh shut up,” Federico said. He looked over his shoulder when he said it like Mrs. Finch was going to be there with her spoon. “You have spent your whole life trying to be part of our group. Man up and stop whining.” Then he looked at Altair. “I play guitar, if you need me too and the upstairs bathroom with the claw foot tub has very good acoustics if you want to record the stuff for your internet stalker before the camera men arrive.”

Altair was trying to work out how much of what Federico said was offensive and how much was sincere and failing on all accounts so he just nodded, “thanks.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.
> 
> Wish at least one of us could be there.
> 
> You are an amazing person.
> 
> Thank you, son.
> 
> Are you doing well?
> 
> Sure

When Kadar woke up in the morning, Malik was already out of bed and sitting in the chair next to it. He had managed to steal the computer and was making faces at the screen. “Who got you up?” Kadar mumbled. He rubbed his face with the back of his hands and tried to shake the feeling of having slept far-far too long. “Why didn’t the alarm go off?”

“Miraculously,” Malik said, “I figured out how to turn it off. You don’t sound like me at all when you’re writing these. If you’re faking being me, you should at least try to fake the way I write.”

Well, it was nice to know that sleeping did not improve Malik’s mood at all. Kadar sat up on the couch, set his feet on the cold floor and tried to rub the lethargy out of his eye. He was yawning and squinting at the odd shaved sides of Malik’s head. He had hair left on the top of his head that was long enough to be a mess but not long enough to be floppy. “Yeah, I’ll be sure to grow a fake vagina, fuck a semi-celebrity and take out my rage about my own personal inadequacy on someone who only kind of deserves it.” He stretched and got to his feet. 

Malik snapped the computer shut. “Could you just try to not piss me off?”

“Well, If I was going to stop breathing this would be the right place to do it,” Kadar answered back. He went into the bathroom before Malik could manage a rebuttal and came back to find him sitting in the same position staring blankly across the room. His teeth were clenched tight enough that the muscle in his jaw was flexing beneath his skin. “You want to shave?”

It seemed to take monument effort for Malik to look away from the nothing on the wall and glance at Kadar long enough to comprehend his words. “No.”

“Has the nurse been in yet?” Kadar asked.

“Yes.”

“How are your vitals?”

“Fine.”

Kadar nodded and went to dig his phone out of the blankets. There were new messages from his Mom to read and one from Leonardo (probably asking if he needed anything). He found his wallet in his bookbag and tucked it into his back pocket. “Well, going down to the cafeteria to get breakfast.” 

“Great,” Malik answered.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Are you fucking serious right now? No, scratch that. You are. I can tell that you’ve managed to convince yourself that you’re innocent of all charges. Let’s skip that argument and we can agree that it did not go well. Why are you a homophobic dick, Altair? Did someone touch you inappropriately? Was your Grandmother a homophobe too? Is your charming cousin that likes picking on abused kids? Are you secretly gagging for dick?
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  I don’t think I’m a special or exempt. I think I’m allowed to have fears and to disagree with things without having to explain myself. I’m not hurting anyone and telling them they can’t be gay if they want.

Federico took twenty minutes to figure out how to play the song and Altair spent twenty minutes laying in the bathtub listening to the way it was song on endless repeat. He was humming along with it, trying to figure out the timing and hoping that in the end he did at least a decent job of it. “Got it,” Federico said.

Altair looked over at him and then leaned half out of the tub to pick up his laptop and the microphone. “Well this will probably suck.”

Federico snorted. “Probably.” He was sitting on the toilet, dressed as impeccably as his brother (looking out of place despite the excessive glamour of the bathroom they were in) with a beat-up guitar balanced on his lap. He had his hand pressed against the strings. For a minute, he looked angry and then resigned and finally he sighed like it pained him. “Do you love this girl?”

Altair shrugged.

“Coward,” Federico said. “Look, I’m not your brother and I don’t have any right to tell you how to live your life—fuck knows what I might have said to you if I did—but don’t waste your time doing this if you’re too scared to do it right. If you love this person then there is nothing too embarrassing or too—” he made a motion with his hand, “ _much_ , over the top? Love should set you on fire and inspire you to do the most ridiculous things you have ever done in your life. You should gladly humiliate yourself at her feet for the joy of her smile.”

Yes, well that was easier to do before Sass went off and tried to be the world’s most concentrated bitch. Altair looked down at the computer and licked his lips. He looked up again, “is that how you feel about Cristina?”

“No,” Federico said. “You were so kind as to tell the whole world so you should know. I married her for the money. I think she is wonderful and I wish that she had not turned down my idiot brother because he worshiped her but—it is what it is. We have made peace with our choice and we have a strong partnership.” Federico didn’t even look sad about it. There was no anger in his voice even with the accusation. “So, are we going to do this?”

“Are you going to mock me?” Altair asked.

“Yes,” Federico said. “It is a pastime that brings me joy.”

Altair laughed at that and then sighed. “Well, let’s do this.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m a bitch because I hate myself and can’t figure out why pathetic people like you keep hanging around letting me throw metaphorical stones at them. It matters because human beings deserve more respect that you’re willing to give them. For half a second, try to imagine if one of your cousins was gay. Imagine you found out that Desmond liked sucking dick. Take a minute and be honest with yourself about how you’d react. This is a man that is your _brother_ and he means everything to you. You fought your whole family for him and you would have done more if you could have. So imagine that he comes to you and he says, Altair I’m gay. Maybe you’d make it through that confession and you’d convince yourself it didn’t matter but he’d show up with his boyfriend and you’d flip the fuck out. You couldn’t handle it and maybe you’d work around to hating yourself but BE HONEST you’d, what was it you said? Break out in rashes and homophobic wailing. You’d destroy your cousin because you couldn’t cope with the fact that he likes a man’s body. So how about you tell me why it fucking matters, Altair? Either stop wasting my time and walk away now or give me a damn good reason why you’re a homophobic dick.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  Why are you a bitch? Why the fuck does it matter? Explain to me why it fucking matters to you?

When the nurse (Wendy) came to change the bandages on Malik’s body, Kadar stood at her side and watched (because he’d asked and she said it was alright and he’d have to learn how to do the ones on Malik’s stump until he was better at doing them himself). She peeled the broad tape away from Malik’s skin and made low sounds under her breath like she was narrating everything she saw. The wound was healing well (so she said) looking pink and painful over the fading bruises. The interesting thing was how Malik closed his eyes and tipped his head. He didn’t look, he hadn’t ever looked. He didn’t look in the mirror when he went into the bathroom.

“Do you think you can do this?” Wendy asked him when she’d finished bandaging the wound on Malik’s abdomen. She had a fresh set of bandages for his arm as she urged him to sit up and took a moment to wait and hear what Kadar said.

“Yeah,” Kadar said. He slid closer to Malik and she scooted back to give him space. The first step was to unroll the old one. It went across Malik’s chest (depending on who did them) so he had to pull the Velcro closure loose and start rolling it back up. Malik was minimally helpful, moving when he was touched and otherwise looking to the side and not paying attention. Kadar hadn’t ever been as close to the amputation sight as he was when he pulled the last bit of the bandage away. It looked good (so Wendy said) but it was a gruesome sight that Kadar just couldn’t pretend wasn’t (at least a little) painfully foreign and unnerving to see. He kept his face neutral and listened to Wendy telling him what he was looking for when he checked the area for sores and skin breakdown. She had Malik do a series of stretches and reiterated the importance of proper posture as a preventative measure against complications. Then she gave him the fresh bandages. “So where do I start?” Kadar asked.

Wendy said, “do you remember?” to Malik. 

“I thought he was learning how to do this,” Malik said. “I don’t believe in giving away the answers.”

Kadar could have hit him but Wendy ignored the tone and the refusal to get involved. She segued expertly into teaching him how to wrap it at angles (not around and around) and showed him how tight it should be. When they were done, Kadar was reasonably proud of himself for managing it. “That wasn’t so bad.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Here is a lengthy playlist of various things I’ve recorded for your sister. I had a MP3 player sent to you and it should be there sometime Monday. Tell me if it helps at all. Also you didn’t tell me her favorite book. But if you do and you think she’d enjoy it, I would. 
> 
> I don’t know if I deserve to ask but I want to know if she has been as purposefully awful to you as she has been to me. I purposefully asked for it but I get the feeling that her anger and outbursts aren’t limited to lengthy e-mails.

Kadar wasn’t hiding from Malik but meeting Leonardo in the lobby. He wasn’t sure how the lobby had become the pavement outside had become the green patch of grass with a nice little water feature with a bench he could sit on. 

He wasn’t sure why he cried when he read the e-mail. 

He wasn’t even sure how long Leonardo had been quietly approaching before he finally sat next to him. And the man was a stranger, really, someone that Kadar didn’t know at all. Leonardo belonged to Malik with the strange silent-knowledge of one another’s bodies that could have come from sex or friendship or whatever Frankenstein combination the two had made. It shouldn’t have been _okay_ or _acceptable_ the way Leonardo put am arm over his shoulders. It should have been so dreadfully comforting when Leonardo pulled him up against his chest and pressed his cheek to the top of Kadar’s head. His hands were rubbing up and down Kadar’s back and he was _crying_ the way he hadn’t since he was a stupid kid.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Hey, if you were gay I’d still love you, right?
> 
> I can’t answer that.
> 
> It’s not a fair question.
> 
> Yeah. That’s what I thought.

Altair found his way to his Grandmother’s grave. Mother’s Day had been an awkward event for him. Grandmother had insisted that he should remember his own mother—Maud—and Altair had fought her every year over the fact that she was his Mom. She had raised him and she had accepted his gifts while she gently insisted that his true Mother also deserved his love and loyalty.

When he thought of _Mother_ , it wasn’t the silky-gloss photograph of Maud he thought of but his Grandmother in bright and living details. He sat at the foot of her grave and crossed his legs in front of him. It was ridiculous and he felt foolish in a clichéd way when he said, “what do I do now?”

There was no answer from a dead woman and no answer knocking around inside his head. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Let me explain something to you that perhaps nobody has been kind enough to explain to you before now. It’s important so I need you to pay attention. 
> 
> The definition of pathetic is “arousing pity” or alternatively “miserably inadequate”. I understand that you are attributing this to me and while I appreciate your pity I do not require it because I do not want or deserve _your_ pity. I accept that given your current dire preoccupation with my failings that you may consider me to be miserably inadequate and that is, of course, your choice. In fact, feel free to do your worst, Sass. I invited you to unleash your fury on me and you have certainly fulfilled my request. Pour your venomous self-hatred into words and pick me apart until there’s nothing redeemable left and that will be _fine_ too. 
> 
> But here’s the thing that you need to know. You don’t have the right to act the way you are acting. You don’t have the right to spread your misery as far as it will extend. What happened to you has altered your life and it has forced you to find a new route to your projected destinations but it has not given you the right to hurt the people that love you. You gave me such a lovely scenario in your last e-mail allow me to give you one:
> 
> Your kid brother that you spent your whole life protecting, your kid brother that must love you with such loyalty that it’s _painful_ , finally realizes that whatever you once were has been irrevocably severed and in the place of his beloved sister there is a shriveled old hag that spews vitriol and _hate_ to cover the fact that she’s scared and too big a coward to admit it. Your baby brother who never doubted a day in his life that you loved him, realizes—finally—that the sister that sang to him during thunderstorms will never come back to him. There you are, a mangled, broken, properly chastised wretch sick with victory in the knowledge that you have well and truly severed a bond you have spent a lifetime building. But he doesn’t leave the way you think he will, instead he stays and he bleeds to death in front of you slowly but surely turning into the same brittle shell that you have become.
> 
> Fix your shit, Sass. You deserve to be happy. Your brother is a hell of a guy and he needs to know that you’re not gone, that you’ll find your way back when it stops hurting so fucking much. Yeah? Maybe then, when you’re _you_ again, we can have this talk about what’s wrong with me.

Malik was furious in the space between the bathroom and the bed with the IV tubing pulled taut between where the pole was and where he stood. It had to go around the end of the bed in order for Malik to get to the bathroom but the rapid way Malik hadn’t given Kadar time to grab it.

“Hey, wait,” Kadar said. He yanked the plug out of the wall and straightened up to see Malik yanked the IV out of his arm and throwing it down on the bed. His arm was bleeding as he went into the bathroom and tried to slam the door. Kadar went over the bed (not around it) with a great clatter of parts and used a pillow to stop the door from closing. “What the hell, Malik?” he demanded.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Malik screamed at him with the door half-shut and his face red with anger. He hadn’t shaved in days and his hand was gesturing out to the side with a wild motion even as his voice broke, “what do I fucking have to do to get rid of you? Just go away!” He pushed his hand against Kadar’s chest as hard as he could, leaned his body into it and managed to knock Kadar back a half step before he dug his feet in against the ground and reached out to fist a hand in Malik’s hospital gown. It was flimsy and thing, made of buttons and little ties that were inadequate to pull him closer. “Stop it!” Malik screamed again. “I don’t want you here! I don’t want you!”

“Well it doesn’t fucking matter!” Kadar shouted back. He twisted his hand in the gown and yanked so hard it threw Malik’s balance off (not a hard feat all things considered) and his arm caught Malik by his bruised ribs and pulled him closer than they’d gotten in all this time. Kadar put both arms around him, grabbed his wrist with his fist and tightened his arms as Malik struggled against him. “It doesn’t matter,” Kadar said again (softer-softer). “You’re my brother and I’m not leaving. You’re my brother and I’m here no matter what. You’re my _fucking brother_ and I won’t leave you like this.”

Malik was shouting at him, indecipherable things that broke into sobs just before the world seemed to slip out from under him. There was a nurse somewhere behind Kadar’s back, one (two, three of them from the sound) asking questions and demanding answers. Their worried faces were in the periphery of Kadar’s vision. He took two little side steps and set Malik on the seat in the shower with his body curved around his brother’s. 

“It’s okay,” Kadar said, “it’s okay.” He closed his eyes and kept his arms around Malik. He closed his eyes and stroked his hand down Malik’s back as Malik pulled at his shirt. The nurses weren’t as convinced as he was that everything would be okay. “We’re alright,” he promised, “please—just a minute.”

Malik was quiet now, face pressed against his chest and breath hitching his shoulders up-and-down. It was a devastating attempt at calm. He said, “I’m alright.” 

The nurses didn’t leave but they were kind enough to give the illusion of privacy. Kadar pulled back and Malik wiped his face with his hand and then wiped it onto the gown. He huffed a noise and sniffled. Kadar sat on the edge of the toilet with his weight balanced on his feet so he could jump at a second’s notice. 

“What happened?” Kadar asked.

Malik laughed and it was a scoffing, sorry sound. He picked up the gown and used it to wipe his face and rubbed his forearm on the edge of it to clean away the blood. “I read something I didn’t like.” Then he sniffled again. The blood started seeping out of his arm again so Kadar grabbed a paper towel, folded it twice and pressed it over the open wound with both his thumbs. 

“From your friend?”

Malik was looking down at him when he nodded. “Yeah. Kadar,” he said, “if I don’t get better, if I can’t _be better_ than I have been. Don’t stay. Please don’t stay.”

Well that was simply a promise that Kadar couldn’t make. They both knew it and Malik leaned down in a way that had to hurt every part of him to press his head against Kadar’s. It was a gesture so reminiscent of their Mother that Kadar couldn’t keep himself from kissing Malik’s forehead. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

\--

> [Audio recording.]
> 
> Altair: I actually have no idea what to say right now. I had this plan to just say really stupid things that would piss you off because that seems to be how our relationship works. I did just finish a dramatic reading of the highlights of Twilight so you have that to look forward if you keep listening. I just—I’m not sure how to start this thing.
> 
> Altair: This is actually the thirteenth attempt now. 
> 
> Altair: So, I don’t know why I can’t be there with you. Desmond says your reasons are important. 
> 
> Altair: Apparently I really can’t start this stupid playlist thing.
> 
> Altair: The point is, Sass. I think you are an amazing person. I think it’s important for you to know that you have been a positive, necessary change in my life and it doesn’t matter what happens after this, you will be a part of me forever. So imagine how hard it is for me to try to figure out why someone that important to me can’t accept they deserve to be happy.
> 
> Altair: Your brother told me you like me shirtless. So I’m not wearing a shirt while I talk to myself in a dark room. That’s hot right?
> 
> Altair: When my Grandmother was sad she used to sing this song from Sesame Street or something, you know _sing, sing a song, sing out loud—sing out strong. Sing of good things not bad, sing of happy not said. Sing, sing a song, make it simple to last your whole life long._ There’s something else, I think it’s _don’t worry if it’s not good enough for anyone else to hear just sing, sing a song_. I think of that when I start to miss her or when I start thinking nothing’s going to ever get better. I sang it to her when she was sick, so I’m going to sing it to you. I don’t know, maybe it’ll make a difference.

Malik was not _prepared_ to hear Altair’s voice. He wasn’t prepared to be _comforted_ by the idiot rambling on and on about nonsense. Kadar was watching him from across the room, acutely worried by the outburst but also somehow more at peace than he had been before. Malik was back in bed, properly fussed at by his nurse who had put in a new IV and asked him if he wanted something for the anxiety.

While he waited, he closed his eyes and listened to the fool talking. He must have fallen asleep because it was morning when he woke up and Kadar was sitting on the left at his bedside between the bathroom and the bed, mostly asleep in the chair. Malik wanted to reach out and touch him (and couldn’t, without having to turn his whole body). There was a spike of anger that moved through him so fast it was like being struck by lightning. He said, “wake up Kadar,” and thought it didn’t sound awful.

Kadar jerked upright. “What? What? Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. “Move the chair I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Oh,” Kadar said. “Yeah.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> What the fuck did I ever do to deserve you? 
> 
> Thank you. For the honesty. For the rambling, the songs. Thank you for being so stupid. Thank you for ruining my life. I’m on drugs right now. Anxiety I think. I’m tired and agreeable. I mean it. Thank you. 
> 
> But, I’m still awful. Don’t expect that to change.

That was good, but then there was: 

> FROM: K [Notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Two things: she smiled. Thank you for that. Then she fell asleep. Thanks for that too.

It was a bittersweet victory. Altair was caught between smiling and demanding why the hell he couldn’t have been there to see it in person. As it stood, he was supposed to be filming some kind of confessional for Ezio’s show so he tucked the phone away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you don't know it the song Altair is singing is: [Sing a Song by The Carpenters](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GKomWBuEXe4) but if you look up Sesame Street sing a song you'll find a lot of versions of it there too.


	40. Chapter 40

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Could you pick up cinnamon gum?
> 
> Sure. I’m not coming up there until tomorrow though.
> 
> That’s fine. I’m just quietly dying of drinking too much water
> 
> What a terrible way to die. I’ll bring it.

Malik fell asleep around ten when the night nurse showed up with his anxiety medicine and tucked him into bed (not literally) before telling him to get his rest. Kadar had nothing to do but walk the halls in an endless revolution and make occasional trips downstairs to the cafeteria. Mother had taken up texting or calling him in the evening when they used to sit and talk during dinner. Her mood had improved somewhat after Kadar told her Malik had a breakdown in the bathroom as if that were a sign of a positive change.

Mostly, he was bored. Deeply, terribly _bored_ after ten or while Malik was gone to work with the therapists that were trying to teach him how to do simple tasks with one hand or talk him into working with a prosthesis (that was not going well thus far). It was almost midnight when he wandered out of the room to the hall where the nurses (the weekend ones that were loud with laughter and full of dirty stories) were all looking guilty while they snacked on pizza at the big desk in the center of the empty hall. There was one assistant in the distance rolling up bed linens and throwing them in the dirty bin. 

“Everything okay?” Josie asked. She kicked one of the rolling chairs out from under the table and Kadar flopped into it. “Does your brother need anything? Pain killers—no it’s not time yet.”

“He’s asleep,” Kadar said. “He can’t sleep with the TV on and I’ve run out of things to look at on the internet. I didn’t think it would happen but it did.” He put his elbow on the long desk and motioned at all of them trying to look like they weren’t eating at the long desk against hospital regulations. “Are you having a party?”

“No,” Hannah said. She was at the tallest part of the desk where the unit secretary usually sat during the day. She had the phone with the red tape on it that meant she was that shift’s charge nurse. “How old are you, Kadar?”

“I’m seventeen,” he said. He sighed. “I’m going to the vending machine, anyone want anything?”

“Yes,” Josie said. “I need a coke.” She dug into her pocket and produced the exact change required and dumped it into his hand. “Thank you.”

Kadar didn’t like the hospital during regular hours when it was filled with people coming-and-going. He wasn’t fond of it with all the family members in the cafeteria and up on the third floor surgical unit. It hadn’t even been a whole week of living at the hospital and he was already looking at the families of new patients with a weary understanding. After dark, the hospital was skeletal and bare. Possessed of dark corners and eerily bright lights. Everything seemed to have been ripped from a moody horror movie and he spent most of his time riding on empty elevators and shuffling past night workers waxing the floors, all the while quietly waiting to be attacked by ghosts. The closest vending machines were outside of the maternity ward on the second floor. Now and again, he managed to run into a few families waiting for good news but most of the time (after dark) he found nothing but empty seats and a secretary that leaned her cheek against her hand and read books. 

He got a drink for Josie and one for himself and went back to the third floor. When he gave Josie her drink, she gave him a piece of pizza. “You’re a good kid,” she said. “Now go to sleep or I’ll call your Mom.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [Whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I apologize profusely. I forgot that you were terribly shallow. Should I send you some exercise equipment instead? Or you know, shut up and enjoy your candy. 
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  Limited exercise and a lot of candy are a bad combination. I won’t have anything nice to say to you if I get fat.

Malik woke up before Kadar (sometimes _hours_ before his brother). Most of the time he read his book or he sent stupid messages to Altair (who never seemed to sleep), his Mother (who did sleep but was prompt with answering while awake) or Leonardo (who didn’t sleep but still didn’t answer). Sometimes, he snoozed a while longer because it was early-early morning and there was nothing to do. But Monday (early) morning before the sun rose, Malik got himself out of bed (a task made difficult by the pain in his fractured rib and the fact that he’d had his spleen removed) and shuffled very, very quietly to the bathroom. The door didn’t close silently but quietly enough he thought he might have managed to do it without attracting too much attention. 

With the light on, the small bathroom was garishly well-lit. Malik stood in front of the mirror with his eyes closed (being aware of his posture, of course). His (only) hand rested on the sink as he tried to work up the nerve to really look. It had constant, unending attention and dedication to avoid looking into reflective surfaces for the past week. The crawling, bitter confusion of things that he half-felt and half-denied were creeping upward from his gut and turning like worms inside of his skull. The new medication that controlled the violent anxiety from a few days ago had calmed the defensive sense of _denial_. 

Rationality demanded that he look at what remained of his body. So he drew in a breath and opened his eyes. The mirror was almost as big as the back of the bathroom door. His face (still faintly bruised under his left eye and over his ear) had not changed in any significant way. The haircut was unlike anything he’d considered getting for himself in the past. The shaved sides were far more daring than he considered himself to be. The overgrowth of hair covering his cheeks was a sign of the neglect he’d been wallowing in. Malik touched his face with his (remaining) hand and brushed his fingers across the raised, healing cut across the side of his scalp. 

Some doctor, at some point, very early on said he was _fortunate_ to have avoided any serious brain damage. The concussion he’d woken up with was mild in comparison to what could have happened. At the time it felt like a poor consolation and now it seemed a little bit like a miracle.

Malik reached over his head to grab his shirt by the back and pulled it straight up and over his head. It was dropped into the sink and he was left looking at the altered landscape of his body. Tilted toward the window he could see the bruising where it was the worst, the cream-white of the bandages covering his stump and the long white bandage over the surgical site. It probably wasn’t an advisable idea, but he pulled the elastic bandage free and started unrolling it from his arm. When he had finished, he let it fall on the floor and reached down to pluck at the tape until he pulled the dressing off the surgery wound. Then he had a full view of his altered body. 

On the right, he was almost untouched: still strong and even toned. On the left, he was bruised, lacerated and halved. The skin was pale where it had been covered for a week. His stump had a strange shape to it—entirely unfamiliar to him. When he touched it, it was hard to remember that it was a part of his own body. 

“Well,” he said to his reflection. “This is what you are now.” Then he very, very gingerly and very (very) carefully reached down to pick up the mess he’d made on the floor. 

Kadar was awake when he walked out. His face went from a sleepy half-smile to a sigh of deepest disappointment to see him with a fistful of bandages. “I’m putting bells on you.” But it was an empty threat. Immediately undermined by the anxious sounding, “are you okay?”

Malik dropped the stuff on the bed. “I think I should look at this positively. I was worried I would not be able to stop whoring through college.” He pressed the nurse call button and waited for Josie to come in looking tired after her third all-night shift in a row. She looked at the bandages on the bed, put one hand on her hip and drummed her fingers against the bedside table. 

“You try my patience,” she said. “But since you were kind enough to remove them, let me get my stuff.” Then she specifically looked at Kadar with narrow eyes while he sputtered with innocence. 

\--

MariaThorpe: since I agreed to show up for @EzioAuditore’s show I thought I’d watch some of it. Can’t decide if @son-of-no-one looked better before the scar or now. (20m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @MariaThorpe, how’s that poll going? I’m dying to know how much more or less attractive I am now. (13m ago)

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, It’s 70-30 in favor of the scar adding sex appeal. What does your friend @Sass-Badger think? (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: @MariaThorpe, I think his whole face is stupid. (5m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, words hurt. (3m ago) 

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, you’ll live. You’re the same level of attractive but the scar does add character to your otherwise generically pleasing face. (1m ago)

Lucy had only just gotten back from her adventure in insisting to keep her job. Desmond was sleeping (off the drive, perhaps) in his ‘ _usual_ ’ bedroom upstairs. Ezio and Federico had gone off to take a tour of the grounds in an effort to see whatever had become of the old pirate ship (that Mrs. Finch insisted had been dismantled but Federico insisted had been partially buried in the far end of the property). Claudia was in the garden with Mr. Finch listening to him babble about the flowers.

“So this is where you grew up?” Lucy asked him. She was wearing a white tank top with stringy little straps and little olive green shorts. In the kitchen, she looked out of place with wonder on her face and pink in her cheeks as she tried not to look too conspicuously uncomfortable. “Did you carry a map around with you?”

Altair laughed. “It’s a pretty straight line from my room to the kitchen.”

“Where’s your room?”

He took her up through the back halls that the staff had used to keep out of the line of sight of the important guests, up and around to his bedroom. His bags were open and laying out under the window with the spectacular view of the gardens. She stood in the middle space between his bed and the walls with her arms hugging her ribs and a disappointed look on her face. “What?” he asked. He kicked one of the bags shut. 

“I—just,” she said. Then she wrinkled up her nose and pursed her lips like she didn’t want to say anything but was probably going to anyway. “I thought that your apartment was kind of barren and empty because you lost your Grandmother and you’d been alone for so long—like, you knew you didn’t have a home so why bother caring about it? But this—” she motioned around the empty walls in his room. Then at his bed with the smooth, cool sheets left in wrinkled messes at the foot. Even the rug that covered the polished wood floor was something that was perfectly nondescript. “You grew up in this room? Where are your toys? Where are your pictures? Where’s your—favorite stuffed animal or your blanket you slept with every night or anything? I mean, _Jesus_ what happens in your family that you all grow up like this? I’m pulling my hair out trying to be patient and Desmond just doesn’t _get it_. Then here you are as homeless as he is.”

Altair touched the model car sitting on the lighted shelf hanging on the wall. There were a bunch of them. Model cars, sports statues and various small souvenirs that he’d picked up around the world and brought back to add to the collection. “What does your bedroom look like?”

“Shit,” Lucy said. “It’s—well, it was a very pale pink. Now it’s kind of dingy because it’s been years. My Mom called me a few months ago and said she was thinking about turning it into a guest room since I don’t seem to be coming home again but she hasn’t done it yet because she hasn’t called me to get my stuff. I had— _Jesus_ , I had magazine pictures of all the guys I thought were hot hanging over my bed. I had crayon on the walls from when I was a kid. I had my stuffed bears. I had nail polish stains and permanent marker stains on my dresser. I had books. I had a lot of books on my shelves and trophies and yearbooks that I wrote it about who made me angry and who I was so-totally-in-love with. I kept things, Altair. I kept things I thought I’d miss and I put them in my room.”

Altair went over to his bed and dragged a box out from under it. He flopped back to sit and reached down to pick up his yearbook from first grade. It was one of the only ones that he had bothered to ask for or keep for his own purposes. The others probably existed somewhere in the house. It was the sort of thing that Grandma had probably gathered up for him to make sure he never lacked for it as an adult. He handed it to Lucy who sighed as she took it in hand. “I have a home,” Altair said. Then he motioned her to sit on the bed and laid back so she would follow suit. Once she was laying down (looking up) the stars he’d spent hours of his childhood sticking to the ceiling were visible (even in the light). “I didn’t keep stuff,” Altair said. “I kept the memory of things. I remember how rough my Father’s beard was when he hugged me. I remember how soft Grandma’s hands were when they touched my head when I was sick. I remember the smell of the grass outside the day Father took me out to teach me to play catch. The color of the wood of the pirate ship Grandma built for me on my birthday. I remember the taste of tea with honey in it on the cold mornings when Mrs. Finch said I didn’t need anymore chocolate. I remember the first time I went on the plane with Grandma and how loud and terrible it was. I remember the kid in second grade who said she loved me more than anyone in the world and she kissed me in the lunch room so I would give her my desserts and I thought I was never going to love any girl more than her until I found out she was kissing all the boys. I remember the first time I met Claudia when she was little and quiet. She had pigtails and her thumb in her mouth and she was holding Federico’s hand. She convinced me to wear one of her dresses and we had a tea party in the garden outside until her brothers found us,” Altair said.

Lucy sighed. “What did those dickheads have to say about that?”

Altair snorted. He rubbed his face. “That wasn’t even the first time they told me I was a sissy or that I was gay. Apparently, I didn’t know how to play with other boys.”

“Did any little boys kiss you to take your dessert?” Lucy asked. She was amused-and-ready to fight all at once. 

“No.” Altair looked at her. “I don’t think so. But I’m a homophobic asshole so they might have and I just don’t remember it.”

Lucy turned onto her side and rested her head on her palm. She sighed. “You really are, Altair. I mean I like you but— You really are.”

Yeah. Altair sat up and got to his feet. He took the yearbook back and threw it into the box with the other useless papers he’d kept from school and never bothered to retrieve from his childhood bedroom. “Nobody’s perfect.”

“That’s a cop out,” Lucy said. “So, show me around the rest of this monstrous place. Tell me what kind of bullshit I’ve gotten myself dragged into. Tea parties in the garden seem far tamer than I was expecting.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> How did you know how I was treating my brother? Did he tell you?

Malik didn’t want to have a discussion with the occupational therapist about what was important for him and what his goals were with his ongoing treatment. He also didn’t want to have to explain to the doctor how he didn’t want a prosthetic arm. Then there was the therapist that came by once every two days to ask him about how he was coping. The old man smelled like baby powder and always seemed intimately concerned with Malik’s well being in a way that left him feeling invaded and unhappy. 

All these people he didn’t want to spend his time with. All these people that exhausted him as he forced himself into expending enough effort to make Kadar go from perpetually defeated by frowning to smiling again. 

Then there was the discharge coordinator that showed up in his room on Tuesday afternoon talking about how well he was doing and how his progress was really encouraging. Malik was sitting in the straight back chair that sat next to his freshly made bed, looking through his phone for anything to do (since Altair was off doing things with people and Kadar was busy pretending to be him on the laptop). 

“So, I think that you’re close to discharge and we just like to make sure that you’ve got a good support system at home. There will be appointments for you to keep—the surgeon will need to see you again. There is more occupational therapy that you could benefit from.” (Yes, because Malik needed to finish learning how to tie his shoes with only his right hand.) “I see that you’re from Connecticut. Were you planning on trying to make that trip when you were discharged or is there somewhere close by that you were going to stay?”

Malik wanted to call her stupid. She was an older woman, probably married. Probably had nearly-adult children. She was probably the sort of good Christian that went to church every week and prayed for sinners. He didn’t have a single good reason to not like her but the fact that she existed and wanted to help him made him grit his teeth together for a half-second too long to be socially acceptable. 

Kadar interrupted between the odd-length of the silence and Mrs. Sturgeon (like the fish) opening her mouth again. “We’re going to be staying with his friend who lives by the college for a while.”

Oh and Mrs. Sturgeon was oh-so-pleased to know that. She jotted down notes and talked to him about what sort of place Leonardo lived in and if there was adequate food and electricity. She was very interested in everything (to a point of invasive) before she was satisfied. “Well, good,” she said when she finished. “I hope your recovery continues to go smoothly, Mr. Al-Sayf.” Then she was gone, ushered out on her practical flats to the world beyond his door. 

“Jerk,” Kadar sang at him. 

“They look at my body, they take my blood, they only _just_ stopped looking at my shit you’d think that would be enough without them having to ask me where I’m going to live and if it has running water!” He stood up. 

Kadar didn’t up to help him (a definite improvement over several days ago) but cock his head to the side and give him a face that explained Malik was overreacting to this mass invasion of privacy. “They’re trying to make sure you’re healthy. Want to go for a walk? Who’s your nurse?” He turned his head to look at the board. “It’s Sophia, isn’t it? She’ll let us walk down to the courtyard if you don’t act like an asshole. Just imagine sunlight and fresh air, Malik.”

It was a stupid idea but Malik went along with it. He managed to get his shirt and shoes on with limited difficulty (if only because he’d had Kadar tie his laces once and just pulled the shoes on without untying them). The nurse gave them her blessing and threatened to hunt them down if they didn’t return. 

The courtyard was an open space set in the middle of the hospital with a water feature that looked like a stream that ran from one end to the other. There was a bridge that went over it and little koi fish swimming back and forth waiting to be fed. The sun was thin late in the evening but the smell of fresh air (even surrounded by the hospital itself) was a refreshing change. 

“It’ll be nice to get the hell out of here,” Kadar said. “Won’t it?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> No. Your brother protected you but my guess is that he’s young enough to think he’s convincing. How are you doing? When you’re out of the hospital we should start playing Scrabble again.

Wednesday morning, Desmond woke up to chaos. The side of the bed where Lucy should have been was conspicuously cool and empty, the adjacent bathroom was untouched and there was an eerie lack of noise in the currently inhabited portion of the mansion. He had to get dressed and go outside before he found anyone. 

Federico and Ezio were shirtless and bruised looking simultaneously pleased-and-not-pleased with themselves as they faced off in a dueling circle like they had nothing better to do with their lives. Claudia was so angry there were tears in the corner of her eyes and Lucy was standing off to the side with her hand across her mouth and her eyes so wide it was quite frankly comical.

Altair was absent.

“What happened,” Desmond asked Claudia.

“Stupid shit!” Claudia snapped. “I have stupid brothers. I refuse to watch this _stupidity_ unfold again!” Then she threw her hands up in the air and turned around to stomp off. Ezio was laughing about his baby-sister throwing temper tantrums and Federico was spitting blood off to the side with a wide-mouthed grin. 

“Do not go!” Federico shouted at her. “This will only take a moment.”

“Where’s Altair?” Desmond asked. 

“He went to meet Edward,” Lucy said. “Want to go get something to eat? Mrs. Finch kicked us out until we settled this. I think she might let me back in if I’m with you.” 

Probably not. Mrs. Finch was like Grandma and it was all-or-nothing with adults like that. They were of the mind that the cousins should be a family and all disputes should be settled with finality before anyone could be fed. But Lucy was new and Mrs. Finch was still apologetic about telling his secrets so there was a chance they could get something to eat.

\--

> **Mother**
> 
> Your brother tells me that you are going to be discharged on Thursday. Do you feel that you are well enough to leave the hospital?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> The surgeon said I’m healing well with no infections and my pain is well controlled
> 
> Will you continue to take care of yourself when you are out of the hospital?
> 
> I’m not taking care of myself in the hospital.
> 
> They teach me how to do things but then I can’t do them
> 
> Yes, I will be fine
> 
> Your brother says that you have been optimistic.
> 
> Please remember that you do not have to pretend for his sake.
> 
> We want you to heal, not to pretend.
> 
> I’m trying
> 
> If you cannot speak to me or your brother please find someone that you can be honest with. Please do not let this fester 

For the sake of variety, Kadar was sitting on the hospital bed with his legs crossed in front of him and the laptop sitting in front of him and Malik was on the couch watching Ezio’s show with Leonardo. The sound of Ezio talking was a lull of background noise as Kadar tried to sort through all of his options for something to complain about on Thursday’s post. (How the fuck Malik found the time and energy to come up with so much bullshit was mind-boggling.) 

Leonardo was sighing as he fell back into the couch. “I love that man,” he said with one hand down against the inside of his sprawled-open thigh. His other hand was somewhere behind Malik, probably dangerously close to but not touching his left side. “How can you not love that man? He’s the epitome of masculine perfection!”

“He’s a bully,” Malik said dismissively. He waved his hand in the air in front of himself. “He’s handsome if you’re into jerks that know how attractive they are perceived to be but he’s also a misogynist asshole that thinks masculinity is closely tied into how many people you can beat up before you fall down. That whole family is fucked-up.”

“I didn’t realize you were such an authority,” Leonardo said, “what if I told you that I don’t care what his personality is?”

Kadar interrupted to say, “I think the sister is really hot.”

At which point the two gay men turned to look at him like he was an alien. Leonardo made a face that conveyed his poor opinion of Kadar’s choices while Malik rolled his eyes. “I think that Claudia Auditore would eat you alive,” Leonardo said. “You are too kind.”

“Maybe he’d like that sort of thing,” Malik said. And Leonardo snickered while they sat there making faces like idiots about how the two of them had gotten laid and Kadar hadn’t. (And might never, since he never figured out how he felt about sex before marriage.) 

“What about Altair?” Kadar retorted (much more venomously than he most likely should have going by Malik’s expression). “What do you think of him?”

Leonardo made an inhuman noise that was not agreeable dislike or disgusted lust but something in between the two. He dropped his head back to rest against the low back of the couch as his chest arched up off the furniture and his feet slid forward in a great lifeless slouch. Even Malik (who knew him far better) was looking at Leonardo like he didn’t even understand what had happened. Then the dramatic presentation was interrupted by a polite knock and a nurse with pain medicine and antibiotics. 

“What?” Lauren (the night-nurse) asked. “What did I just walk into?”

“Do you watch this show?” Leonardo asked. He motioned up at the screen where Ezio and his assembled crowd of friends were doing something on a beach. The sound was muted so there was no telling what ridiculous thing he was saying. 

“I’ve seen it,” Lauren said. 

“What do you think about Altair?” Kadar asked. “Like, would you date him?”

Lauren’s cheeks went faintly pink at the suggestion. “Would you date him?”

“I’m not gay,” Kadar said. “But I mean, if I were and I knew where he liked to hang out, I think I’d show up and make myself available to be noticed.”

Lauren’s laugh was sudden and abrupt then she put her hand across her mouth and stared at him like she had never-ever heard any such thing. “That is amazing,” she said.

“I’d have sex with him,” Leonardo offered. “But he wouldn’t be allowed to talk. There’s something about him that’s personally offensive to me. I can’t figure it out but every time I hear him say something I want to hit him.”

Malik (at this point) was rolling his eyes with such consistency that it was exaggerated to the point of being suspicious. He responded to the staring eyes resting on him by saying, “I don’t think it’s really relevant for me anymore.”

“He does seem shallow,” Lauren said. Then she offered Malik his pills and a glass of water. She was sure to ask about if he needed anything else before she went and reminded him that visiting hours were nearly over.

\--

Im-not-drunk: just got home to the old family house. It’s good to be home again.(5m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @im-not-drunk, always nice to have the family back together(4m ago)

Altair had picked Edward up from the airport looking like an overly tired piece of shit. He was alone and dreary, mumbling nonsense about how he hadn’t slept in a few days and this vacation was greatly needed. He had mumbled something about how the kids were with their Mother(s) and he had a whole month free of obligation and responsibility. Then he fell asleep in the car. He only woke up to say, “take me to a hotel. I don’t want to go deal with those assholes yet.”

“Which assholes?” Altair asked.

Edward’s response was a quiet laugh. His skin was a constant state of sun-crisped, his hair was bleached-out and his smile seemed like a crooked gash across his face. The tattoos that were visible (and the many that weren’t quite visible) gave him an air of danger that was undermined (almost instantly) but his careless, exhausted sprawl. But there was still something ominous in the way his lips quirked up and his voice went smooth-and-salted. He said, “how many assholes are there, Altair?”

It was a dirty-and-terrible thrill of imminent violence that ran straight through his body. Altair thought about telling Edward that he shouldn’t start anymore shit than necessary. Federico and Ezio were like a powder-keg waiting for anything to send a spark and give them the excuse to have the fight they kept edging their way out of having. Altair just shrugged. “Thanks for your help at Christmas.”

“Not at all,” Edward said. 

That was yesterday and the morning brought Edward straight to the door of the old family house. He stood out in front of it with his bag hanging off his shoulder and his weathered-and-worn shabbiness seeming out of place with even the stone drive. For a minute he simply stood there, one hand gripping the strap of his bag and the other hanging at his side. “I have not been here in a very long time.”

“Nothing’s changed. Your room is the same.”

“I want the house,” Edward said. He looked at Altair like he was waiting for an objection. “Grandfather’s doghouse. I imagine that he might have given it to me if he was allowed to own anything in the end.”

“Yeah,” Altair said. “Keys are inside. You’re not getting out of seeing Mrs. Finch. She’s been excited about seeing you for days.” He led Edward to the side entrance that fed directly into the kitchen. They weren’t even in the room a full ten seconds before Mrs. Finch was attacking Edward with flour-dusted hugs and tear-streaked cheeks. 

Edward hugged her hard and lifted her up off her feet as she went on about how great it was to see him. When she was back on her feet and he was dusting the flour off her sleeves, she said, “you have gotten bigger! You look good, Edward. You look _healthy_.” Then she bustled over to the counter and picked up a plastic dish of something to bring it over and present it to him. “I made your favorite.”

Altair fetched the keys to the doghouse and gave them to Edward. “You know as soon as they know you’re there, they are going to come looking for you.”

Edward grinned sideways at him. “It is funny how you grew up. Thank you for the cookies, Mrs. Finch.” Then Edward turned and headed out toward the doghouse. When he was gone, the kitchen felt too large, like it had expanded to contain him and was now stretched out of shape. 

\--

> ### Throwback Thursday: Baby’s First Modeling Gig
> 
> I was starting to get sick of the old format of the blog as well. Thank you to everyone that commented on the matter. In order to spice things a few new features are going to be added. It has not escaped my notice that the old favorite of criticizing Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad has become stale and half-hearted. In order to preserve the core goal of guiding our favorite troublesome semi-celebrity toward a greater understanding of human decency, reproachful posts will be limited to Mondays. Be on the look out for that new feature. (And many others.)
> 
> In the meantime, please enjoy this picture of three year old Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, looking remarkably pale, doing his first modeling for a line of overpriced kid’s clothing. I don’t care who you are, those shorts are adorable.
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Throwback Thursday, W: adorable babies_
> 
> • **son-of-no-one:**  
>  I see you couldn’t resist saying something about the skin color. I admit it’s still weird to look at those pictures and realize that it’s me. I’m not sure if they made money off this campaign with my face on it but I know they lost money when my Grandmother finished suing them.

Malik didn’t get a chance to look at the blog until after he had successfully escaped the confines of the hospital (with about six pounds of literature on his relevant conditions). Leonardo had offered to take them out to get food but Malik declined as politely as he could. Getting up the stairs to Leonardo’s apartment was a challenge after being jostled by the car the whole way home but he managed it and found a comfortable chair in the area of the apartment that was meant to be a dining room and was usually used as an art studio. There was a table that was partially visible under the debris and Kadar was even kind enough to let him have his computer back.

“What?” Malik demanded at the computer.

“Home thirty minutes, haven’t called your mother, managed to find something that offends you on the internet. That has to be a record.” Leonardo was in the kitchen (that was directly attached to the dining area) chopping up vegetables to make a decent salad (one of the things Malik liked best about him). “You should call your Mother.”

“I’ll call her in a minute. She’s probably expecting me to go out to get food to celebrate my freedom.” He minimized the window and sat back in the chair. 

“Your Mother is smart enough to know that you do not want to be seen in public,” Leonardo said. “I am the eternal optimist. She is a woman of reason that raised perfectly reasonable sons. Now, should I call Sofia and tell her that she cannot come over tomorrow or will you allow her to see you?”

Malik hadn’t thought about Sofia (often, at all) but when he did there was a spike of worry-and-anger-and-lonely distance that he hadn’t even taken the time to acknowledge must less try to untangle. “I don’t care, she can come. It’s your apartment.”

“She’s not coming to visit me. She’s coming to see you. Do you think you can handle seeing her?” 

“I said she could come,” Malik said. He might have said more on the matter if not for how Kadar showed up with his hair still damp with water and his skin pinked by hot water. He smelled like Leonardo’s soap and had his shirt hanging from one hand instead of on his body. Malik balled up his fist and hit him in the side where it would hurt but not too much. 

“Ow!” Kadar yelped. And then his grin got all the more pointed on the edges. “Like it? You know you like it.”

Malik shook his head no and Kadar stuck his tongue out at him. He pulled his shirt on over his head and went over to Leonardo. “Is there anything I can do to help?” And then he got involved in assisting with dinner. The sight of the two of them slicing vegetables side-by-side in the kitchen _infuriated_ him in an instant of white-hot jealousy (and bitter, brittle self-pity). He jerked out of the chair and it fell before he could grab it. The two of them in the kitchen looked at him with startled wide-open eyes.

“I’m going to sit out on the—” Malik motioned at the balcony and went over to flip the lock open and went out to sit on the far less sturdy plastic chairs out there.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> That’s funny, Sass. You’re the most dangerous thing in my life. Sign me up to wade naked through a vat of poisonous snakes and I’d be in less immediate peril than I am every time I find myself sending you another message. 
> 
> This thing we’re doing, this thing where I feed you ammunition and you think I’ll understand the things you can’t control right now—that’s trust, I think. I trust you. So how about this, you tell me whatever you need to tell me—every single day—and I’ll try to figure out why I’m homophobic. Maybe if we keep talking it out, something will change. 
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  I’m not ready for Scrabble. There is a definite safety in knowing that even if you get this e-mail as soon as it’s sent, I don’t have to look at your answer as soon as I get it. I don’t have to pretend to be okay or worry about having to explain that I just don’t want to explain anything. My Mother made me promise her to find someone I could talk to since she thinks and my brother thinks that I can’t talk to them.
> 
> I can’t. Everything I want to say is bitter in my mouth. I want to pour acid in their ears. I want to rip them apart because their lives haven’t changed. They keep acting like they are wounded, like they’ve suffered something and they haven’t. They are whole still. I hate them in a way that I can’t fight. I hate them and I know that it’s impermanent but it’s easier to hate them for having two arms and the same lives they had before than it is to try to _stop_ hating them. 
> 
> You’re safe. How the hell did that happen? You ruined my life. Now I think, I’ll tell _him_ and he’ll understand. 

Kadar found him outside early, early in the morning before prayers. He looked sleep rumpled and disgruntled to be awake as he flopped into the second chair on the balcony. He rubbed his eyes like a toddler and yawned. “Hey,” he said after a minute. “Whenever you’re ready to take the blog back I won’t fight you.”

“I’m not,” Malik said. “Kadar. I— I understand that this hasn’t been easy for you. I appreciate what you’re doing. Thank you for it.”

“Any time,” Kadar said. “Which way is Mecca?”

Malik pointed him in the right direction and Kadar thanked him. They sat in the quiet for a long time before Kadar had to get up and go pray. He did it inside, safely out of sight-and-sound (for the best) and Malik stayed outside in the cool air thinking about everything he’d done to earn his fate.


	41. Chapter 41

> ### No Post on Sundays
> 
> This is a post simply to inform you that henceforth and forever more there will be no posting or replying on Sundays. The entire Sett is on break on Sundays. 
> 
> [Image: Sailor sleeping with his front paws wrapped around the edge of a dark colored blanket. The bold black words at the bottom read: NEEDS MOAR SLEEPS]
> 
> **Tagged:** _F: No Post on Sundays, W: Cat Macros_  
> 

Kadar’s entire plan for the day involved sleeping until he couldn’t physically stand to sleep anymore. He’d even swapped the couch for the air mattress so he could sleep in the cleared out space by the front windows without having to be woken up by cranky adults trying to get a comfortable spot to watch bullshit early Sunday morning TV. 

Then the phone rang at five in the morning and his Mother was on the other ending saying (oh-so-quietly), “I am sorry for waking you up. The house was very quiet.”

“It’s okay,” he promised her. The mattress shifted under him as he rolled off the edge of it and then it nearly flipped up into the arm to disrupt the precarious balance of the stacked things bordering it on all sides. He tiptoed past Leonardo’s sprawled-out body and used the sound of his snoring as cover to open the sliding door to the balcony. “How are you, Mother?”

“I did not realize how long it has been since I was alone for longer than a few hours until very recently,” Mother said. She sounded lonesome and small all the way across the country. “How is your brother?”

“Sleeping,” Kadar answered. He’d no sooner said it than the balcony door opened and Malik stepped through it with his phone stuck between his chin and his chest as he pulled the door shut behind him. “Apparently awake,” Kadar amended. “He’s good. We’ve been taking walks.”

Mother hummed. “Has he spoken to his female friend? Sofia? I spoke to Leonardo briefly on the subject and he said he was not sure which of the two was managing to avoid the other more expertly.” 

“No,” Kadar said. It was awkward to talk about Malik in front of Malik. “She was supposed to come over but she had to work at the last minute. It’ll work out, Mom.”

“Push a little,” Mother said. “He needs a good push now and again.”

His life would be simpler (easier, less _complicated_ ) if Mother knew about Altair-the-great (and powerful) who now held as much sway over Malik’s life as anyone ever had. A lot more than Kadar had (that was sure). He could tell her that she was talking to the wrong person and give her that jerk’s number but instead he had to sigh. “Yes Mother. Did you want to talk to him?”

“She already talked to me,” Malik said.

“Oh,” Kadar said. Mother wished him a good day and apologized for waking him up. When she hung up, there was a quiet space between him and his brother and the aggravating knowledge that he probably wouldn’t make it back to bed today. “How’d you sleep?”

“Alright,” Malik said. “I’m not avoiding Sofia.”

“Great,” Kadar said. “We’ll go see her today.”

Malik glared at him. He drew in a breath (to calm himself down before he started throwing around angry slurs) and amended his previous statement with: “I am avoiding her, but she is also avoiding me. It’s an unspoken compromise.”

“Great,” Kadar said. “As long as that healthy coping mechanism is working for you.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Ok. Let’s test your theory then. It’s not a good enough reason that your cousins have wedged the notion of masculinity into a narrow, small-minded, intolerant box. You think that their jokes and their teasing are entirely harmless. So we will test your theory. Go find something pink, or purple, or anything at all that does not fit into the tight confines of their notion of masculinity and wear it around them. Not for a week straight or anything, but put it into rotation in your wardrobe and wear it often. Make it your favorite shirt. See what happens, see what they say, see how their words make you feel. It may not be the primary reason that you’ve got problems but you shouldn’t dismiss it. When they start talking shit, educate them about why they are wrong. Do not defend yourself. Simply explain that as a human being, you are allowed a variety of likes and dislikes and there is no ‘man’ or ‘woman’ color/clothing/tastes/preferences.
> 
> My friend keeps inching closer to me. I keep inching farther away. But I can see it on his face, you know, that impulse to touch me and to associate comfort and bodily contact. I hate that and I hate the guilt that I feel every time I move away. I just don’t want him to touch me. I don’t want him to feel the scars and the bumps and the awkward body that I’ve got now. It’s perfectly reasonable. That’s what I tell myself but I can’t shake the feeling of guilt. I’m not angry but it feels like anger every time I catch him looking at me and I know there’s something he’s not saying. I just—why can’t people ever just say what they are thinking? Why does everyone have to pretend?
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  I’m just taking a guess by your tone in your last reply that you don’t have warm feelings for my cousins. Considering I’ve spent the last several months intentionally goading them and calling them names I feel like I can only blame myself for that misconception. I’m not saying that they are angels because most of my childhood is comprised of various kinds of mean teasing at their hands. I’m just saying that while Ezio spent an entire summer calling me a baby and telling me to ‘go play with the other girls’, he’s also the sort of guy that would do anything at all for his family. They simply relate to others through pranks and teasing. 
> 
> Also, it’s not enough. I mean, Federico and Ezio are the stupidest people I know when it comes to the idea of what a man should be but it doesn’t feel like their pettiness is monumental enough. So they called me names when I was a kid, and they told poor jokes when they were teenagers (and young adults). It doesn’t seem like enough.

The peace wouldn’t last. Altair didn’t need Desmond to tell him that. Desmond’s mounting aggravation was in direct correlation to Lucy’s growing uneasiness was a direct result of the disturbingly quiet animosity building up between the Auditore brothers. 

“What the fuck is up with your brothers?” Altair asked when he finally managed to corner Claudia out of the sight-and-sound of anyone with a camera. 

Claudia was out in the sun, wearing her ‘tanning bikini’ which looked a great deal like very not much of anything. She set aside the book she’d been reading and motioned him to sit on the chair next to her. Then she sat up and faced him. “I’m sure you remember that Federico got married last year?”

“Yes.”

“Perhaps you remember that Ezio was the first to join sides with you against my family?”

“I remember something along those lines.”

Claudia made a motion like it was as simple as that. “Do you imagine that wounds like that are so easily healed?”

Altair sighed. “So it doesn’t have anything to do with Edward?”

Claudia laughed at the very notion. “Why would it have to do with Edward? They have not spent any time with him since they were all children. My brothers are stubborn but they are not so stubborn they would hold onto injured pride for that long.” 

That didn’t explain why Edward had been there for almost four days and not a single impolite word had been spoken in his presence. There was a half-spoken thing hanging in the space between the Auditore brothers and Edward that was growing steadily. Altair sighed. “Getting ready for the beach?”

“I am improving my tan for a variety of purposes,” Claudia said. “You should work on yours. You’re too white.”

“We’re basically the same color,” Altair pointed out. 

“I know. This is why I said, you should work on your tan. I think you look better when your skin is darker. It suits your face.” Then she laid back down with an obvious air that she should be obeyed. Altair rolled his eyes and pulled his shirt off before he laid down on the chair next to her. “You shouldn’t fight me,” Claudia said. “I always win.”

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Give me something you’ve done recently that’s known to the public and morally reprehensible. Also, could you start sending pictures again? I want to do a feature with pictures that you send. If that’s okay with you, I suppose. 

Kadar’s life seemed to be made of early-early mornings with no relief from the slowly settling sense of suffocation that came from being too exhausted to function. He dragged himself from the deflating air mattress (where he once again failed to stay in bed) to the balcony (where the air was fresh and the company was not often minimal). He expected to find Malik (because he usually did) and was surprised to see Leonardo sitting out there, back against the wall, legs sprawled open with a bottle of something brown that smelled sweet and alcoholic to the left side and a massive sketch book lying up against the sliding glass door. 

“Oh,” Kadar said.

Leonardo looked up at him with a smile that seemed crooked and offensively friendly. He picked up the glass bottle that had been sitting at his side and held it out toward him. “Drink?”

“Oh,” Kadar said again, “uh, no thank you. It’s against—I can’t drink. I _don’t_ drink. I didn’t think you did.” But what the hell did he know anyway? Apparently nothing. “I could just go back in—” He would have turned around and followed the direction of his thumb (perhaps all the way to the known entity that was his big brother) if not for how he caught the familiar lines of a face drawn across the white pages of the sketch book. There was absolutely (positively) not mistaking the subject of the art. 

There was a short laugh that interrupted his realization. Leonardo picked up the sketch book with one loose hand and spread it across his lap. The soup-gray morning light didn’t provide the best illumination but it was still clear enough to make out Malik’s down-turned eyes and tight-held jaw. It was like looking at a photograph. 

“Did you just draw that?” Kadar asked. “Was he out here? Does he know you drew it? He let you draw that?”

“Shhh,” Leonardo hissed at him. His fingertips were damp and smeared across the thicker lines of the picture. He didn’t seem to notice or care how it smudged the picture because he was taking another long drink of the liquor and shaking his head (no-no-no). “Did your brother tell you anything about my memory?”

“He said you had an eidetic memory but he didn’t tell me what that meant. I would have looked it up but I didn’t care.” Kadar pointed at the picture again. “Did you ask if you could draw him?”

“Shhh,” Leonardo hissed again. (Pointed and _fierce_.) “I remember _everything_ , Kadar. I can’t forget anything. It’s all up here,” he touched his finger against his head. “I’m an incorruptible hard drive. I’m the fucking internet. Nothing is lost or forgotten but persistent. This is your brother.” He flipped the page up. “This one is too.” And again, “this one too.” Leonardo rubbed his finger across his eyebrows as he furrowed them together in a pinch of pain that seemed to come from somewhere inside of his body. “I keep drawing him. I keep thinking if I can just find a new way to remember him.” The pages kept flipping and Kadar crouched down to put his hand across the frantic motion of paper. The book stopped; split open and exposed at his brother’s face caught in mid-motion, halfway between a smile and a rebuttal. “I remember _everything_.” Leonardo said. “The car was so hot. The light didn’t turn for a minute and a half and we were arguing about how long was acceptable to wait for a green light. Sofia was laughing and your brother was trying not to laugh. He said, ‘you are—’ and nothing else, you know. I don’t know what he was going to say and sometimes when I’m trying to fall asleep I try to figure out what he was going to say.”

“Wrong,” Kadar said. “Stupid? Infantile. I’m just saying these are the things he says to me.” Kadar pulled the book away from Leonardo and flipped it closed. He crept forward on the balls of his feet to pluck the liquor bottle out of reach and when he didn’t find the cap, settled for tucking it under his arm and retreating. “I’m sorry.”

Leonardo made a regretful noise. “I studied anatomy, you know. I studied basic medicine—read some surgical manuals when I was a kid.” He licked his lips. “I’m no doctor but I know just enough to know the worst. The car made an awful sound—wet grinding. Sofia screamed but Malik didn’t. I saw them both, I saw the blood everywhere and I didn’t even—I didn’t even think. I went through the space in the seats. I left her alone to get to him. I tell myself _now_ that it was the right choice. He was critically injured. He took the brunt of the impact but I’m a fucking liar. I went to him because I love him, because he’s my friend and he’s important to me.” Leonardo grit his teeth: bared, wet and white with a hiss of wet breath sucked in between them. He pressed his fist against his head and beat it there once-twice before stopping. “I can’t get it out of my head. I can’t see him the same. I can’t make it get out of my head.”

Maybe Kadar _knew_ but maybe he didn’t _understand_ that Leonardo had been _there_. He put the bottle back inside, around the corner of the open door where it couldn’t be reached and then edged forward again. For a half-breath he felt awkward and unwanted, but Leonardo looked at him with pink all around his eyes and a miserable, drunk _agony_ twisting his face out of shape. “I’m sorry,” Kadar said. “I’ll hug you since he won’t.”

Leonardo nodded as the dampness in his lashes spilled over and ran down his cheeks. He crossed his legs in front of him and put his long-long arms around Kadar’s back. It was a disaster of a hug, lingering and unfamiliar. “I’m really not like this,” Leonardo said to his shoulder.

“You should talk to Malik about this,” Kadar said quietly. “I know you wouldn’t think he could handle it or that he’d care but you’re wrong. He wouldn’t want you to—he would want to know.” Kadar let Leonardo move when he pulled back.

“It’s amazing you’re his brother,” Leonardo said. “ _Amazing_.” Then he sniffled and wiped his face with his shirt. “I think I’m going to pass out. Don’t worry about me.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I feel like comparing yourself to your brother is a path that leads to madness. I don’t know him except for the e-mails he sends asking me for things and the changes he applied to your website but as far as I can tell, you are about as opposite as possible. I’m not even actually convinced he’s part of your family. I mean that seriously.
> 
> I bought a pink shirt, as commanded. I wore it yesterday with zero comments from the cousins. They’re busy putting on a show for the cameras, showing off and acting stupid. There was talk of doing a laser tag tournament in the house but Mrs. Finch was adamantly opposed to the notion. I’m sure Ezio will win her over. 
> 
> Also, it’s not that I find it offensive if other men find me attractive. I’m a public figure, people have seen me half naked and sexualized in magazine ads. I’m aware that this invites anyone that’s interested to find me attractive. I can deal with the idea that some dude somewhere is masturbating to my picture. I just—some man comes too close to me and I don’t care how attractive he might look or how innocent his flirting might be if I feel like he sees me as a potential sex partner I just freak out. It’s not even anger. It’s fear. It’s like this burning coldness that starts somewhere in the pit of my stomach and I have to get as far away as I can. I feel trapped and unsteady. Then I start saying stupid things, any _things_ that will get the man away from me. 
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  My brother is a better person than even I thought possible. It's not just because he’s putting up with me. I’m saying it because it’s true. Watching him is simultaneously infuriating and exhausting. Then it’s just fucking annoying like when he drags me out of the apartment to go on walks and talk about everything he sees. We were talking today and he stops and says, ‘did you see those people looking at you? I think they were looking at you.’ And I’m going to tell him how not okay everything he just said was because I don’t need to be reminded that people are staring at me. Then he goes, ‘probably because your fly is down and you have mustard on your face.’ Then he reaches out and wipes his hand across my face and there is mustard on his fingers. I fucking hate him. I can’t help but think if our positions were reversed he’d be breaking world records with acceptance. I feel like a freak and I’m angry and some days I’m just tired and sad but he’d probably be back at school showing people his cool scar. 

Desmond had agreed to go with Altair because the alternative was sticking around to watch the masculine posturing that was going on at the mansion. Lucy was back-at-home for six days (to work) and the lack of her sarcasm and solid sense of reality left him feeling like he was being sucked back into the riptide of surreal drama that surrounded his family. He had participated in a conversation about whether or not plastic surgery was acceptable for men the way it was for women. (He had that conversation.)

Escape was necessary, like a breath of fresh air. Even if his escape landed him in the vehicle with Altair who was sullen and silent behind the driver’s wheel. 

“How’s Sass?” Desmond asked. He’d been meaning to ask but there were conversations about plastic surgery and the failed attempt to make homemade pasta and the general nonsense that surrounded his cousins. The sense of familiarity that came with playing pool in the game room of the old mansion jostled awkwardly against the sensation of robbed peace of hearing Federico’s mean-spirited laugh he-hawing at poor jokes. 

“Bitter, mean. Sad, I think.” Altair rubbed his fingers back and forth on the steering wheel before huffing a breath and saying, “do you think I’m homophobic because I’m surrounded by idiots that promote stupid ideas about masculinity?”

No. Desmond thought Altair was homophobic because he was attracted to men and terrified of the thought. That was last on a long list of things that Desmond was willing to say to his baby cousin (especially while Altair was driving). “I think that listening to your cousins and their stupid views on masculinity and the degrading way they speak about gay men has shaped your opinion. I don’t think it explains everything.”

“Yeah.” Then he cleared his throat. “So I was thinking about getting a tattoo of a rooster.”

“Why?” Desmond asked. 

“No, let me finish. I was thinking about getting like a silhouette where it’s all a solid color. I’m going to get it down here.” He rubbed his finger around his hip below the waistband of his pants. 

“Jesus Christ,” Desmond said when he figured it out (thankfully before Altair could explain it). “Why stop with a rooster? Why not just have them write the word COCK on your stomach with helpful arrows pointing the way? If it’s relevant, nobody needs directions to find your penis.”

Altair laughed. “I didn’t want to make it too obvious. I’m going to get it black and small so I can cover it up later if I don’t like it.” He was grinning and pleased pink. 

“At least you’re going to make it easy for your future self to undo your current self’s stupidity,” Desmond said. “Idiot.”

\--

GuyFawkes23: is it only me or does it seem like @Sass-Badger has been replaced? (1d ago)

Sass-Badger: @GuyFawkes23, I’ve hired an unpaid intern to assist me. Sometimes he does stupid things like post cat pictures. (3h ago)

BestofThree: @Sass-Badger, the cat pictures are my favorite part. Your cat is adorable. The world needs more #badgercat (2h ago)

NotYourBrother: @Sass-Badger, unpaid intern? This is what you’re calling me now?(1h ago)

Sass-Badger: @Notyourbrother, I can’t imagine what else I would call you. (58m ago)

Notyourbrother: @BestofThree, #badgercat is the perfect cat. And he happens to be amazingly photogenic. (56m ago)

BestofThree: @Notyourbrother, What’s his name? (55m ago)

Notyourbrother: @bestofthree, his name is Sailor. (51m ago)

BestofThree: @notyourbrother, that’s adorable. (50m ago)

Malik didn’t often steal the computer back from Kadar (because if he did then he’d have to deal with the fact that typing anything on the big keyboard took six times longer now than it ever had) but he once-in-a-while demand to have it back. He was in the bedroom, lounging between sleeping (again) and staying awake while he read through the newest posts on the Sett. It was too different from his own to deny the involvement of a second party. Acknowledging that there was a second author to the posts was a neat way of explaining nothing at all.

Kadar came through the door with a pillow under his arm and his blanket dragging the ground behind him. He stopped at the end of the bed. “So you’ve probably had sex on this bed and I just need you to know that I don’t even care. I’m so tired I’m hearing things that aren’t real now.”

“There’s a couch?”

The flop of Kadar’s body against the bed was the only answer his suggestion received. Kadar pulled the blanket up around his shoulders and yawned in a way that should have cracked his jaw into pieces. “Oh,” he said with sleep heavy in his voice, “also you really need to talk to Leonardo.”

Malik wasn’t oblivious to that fact. He just hadn’t worked up the energy to deal with it yet. “Am I supposed to stay here while you sleep?”

“Mm,” Kadar mumbled. “That’d be great.” Then, as he was falling asleep (just like that), he said, “I miss Mom.”

Malik waited until he was sure his brother was asleep and reached over to rub a hand through his hair the way Mother had every time she walked past Kadar when he was a baby. It always made the fool smile in his sleep and even now, his lips quirked up.  
\--

> ### Throwback Thursday: A Full Set of Trouble
> 
> Today’s picture is a rare photograph of all of the DeCort cousins crammed into a single frame. They are significantly young in this photograph. I believe the oldest is fifteen in this picture and the youngest was approximately six months. Try to guess which is which in the comments. The answer will be given tomorrow.
> 
> [Image of seven children, three sitting on the floor, two in chairs and one standing in the back. The infant is being held by the taller of the two boys sitting in the chairs. Most of the children are smiling.]
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Throwback Thursday, W: adorable babies, P: Every single cousin_  
> 

The cameras stuck around for Desmond setting up an impromptu bar (after Ezio all but begged him to do it). There was a fire in the backyard and a bar made out of the long table that used to hold Sunday brunches and now did little but fade in the sunshine. Ezio had a drink (or three) and Federico was sitting in a chair sipping his liquor with the studious quiet of a brewing storm. Claudia didn’t drink but tried to help mix the drinks and laughed at her repeated failures as the liquor (that wasn’t cheap) spilled all down her clothes and into her shoes. She had tears on her face and bare pickled feet (so she said) while Desmond was trying not to laugh at her.

Altair was out by the fire, lounging in the dirt close enough to feel the dry-dry heat of it. There was a sack of marshmallows somewhere nearby that had been abandoned in favor of alcohol. He’d had a drink (or half) and wandered away from the cluster of noise to find this quiet space. Looking-in from the outside he wondered how the hell they’d ended up like this. 

The last time they’d all been together in this yard had been the last week his Grandmother was alive. They were sullen boys then, each of them nursing their own disappointments in life. Their shapes had changed, their faces had grown dishonest. Ezio never (ever, ever) stopped smiling and Claudia was quick to laugh and sweetly smile. It was only Federico with his sly-sliding frown that bothered with honesty.

Altair picked himself up off the ground (just a little drunk) and went walking away from the crackle of the fire. Out-out into the grounds where the grass was thick and the smell of flowers seemed to come from all sides. The moon was bright enough to see by and even if it weren’t, he knew the way to the doghouse (even if he weren’t sure why he was going). He left his phone somewhere back by the house and only remembered it as he stepped up onto the porch of Grandpa’s hellish house. 

Edward was sitting out on the porch, looking out of place with his bleached hair and his sun-darkened skin. His face was uneven even in low light, the scars of his childhood drawing in pools of shadows that gave him that air of hostility even when he had none. “I thought you were making an ass of yourself with the others.”

Usually, usually he did. Altair sat next to Edward, close because the space on the bench was limited, but as far away as he could manage. “Why aren’t you? Isn’t that why you’re here?”

“No. I’m here to have a vacation. Ezio offered to pay me for showing up so it made good sense.” He shifted the way he was sitting so he could look at him. “Seems surprising you’d allow this.”

Altair shrugged. 

“I didn’t think Grandma would have put it into your head that cameras belonged in the family home.” Edward said it like a quiet condemnation entirely without venom. “But I didn’t know her very well. She didn’t come out to this house much.” A stray smirk crossed his face. “When she did, I was usually sent to the Nanny.”

“She had sex with Grandpa?” Altair asked. It was the implication in the words. “Wait, Grandpa actually had sex with her after everything she did to him?”

Edward laughed, head back and loud, before he said, “he was a man and he was fond of sex. I think they hated one another but they were still compatible in that way.” 

Altair spent a moment with that thought (working through if he was impressed by his Grandmother’s brazen attitude or disappointed that his Grandfather was so easily used despite everything). In the end he just shrugged it off. 

“I don’t know anything about you,” Edward said after a pause. “You were the most precious child in the family, you know. You were beloved from the moment you came through those gates in the front. The rest of us? We were nothing from that moment on. I fucked up first. I was a premature drunk. I wasn’t fit to be around you.”

“You seem alright now,” Altair said.

“I wasn’t. I’ve done a lot of damage in the world. I’ve made a lot of poor choices.” Then he smiled like it was nothing at all. “But I found someone that wasn’t impressed with my shit. Reminds me of this sass badger you’ve acquired.”

Altair laughed because the conversation was almost ridiculous. 

“Don’t fuck it up with that one,” Edward said. “It’s rare we find people that truly care about us enough to tell us when we’re out of line.”

Anything he might have said on the matter was interrupted by a sudden surge of noise. The pleasant dullness of the night was broken by the guffawing of the arrival of a cluster of idiots carrying alcohol and laughing to themselves. Federico came to the front of the crowd and held up Altair’s phone, “we found this!”

There was no time to think before he was on his feet and out in the grass, chasing after the bully with his phone held above his head. It was a stupid contest when Altair was the tallest (except maybe Desmond) out of all of them but Federico put a solid hand against his chest and held the phone backward over his head. “What’s wrong, cousin?” Federico taunted. “Afraid we might read your e-mail?”

“Give me my phone,” Altair said. He slapped the hand away from his chest but Federico threw it back to Ezio who threw it to Claudia who held onto long enough to look bored. She didn’t give Altair the phone when he tried to get it from her but threw it back to Federico. 

The asshole caught the phone and started to unlock the screen when the creak of the stairs interrupted the low humor of the moment. Edward didn’t waste his time looking at the younger siblings but went straight away for Federico. “Give the kid his phone,” Edward said.

Desmond showed up in the next breath, covered in sweat from a fast run across the grounds and sputtering to a standstill in the pool of light from the porch lights. There were men with cameras slowly creeping up toward the house. “Ezio,” Desmond said, “get rid of the cameras.” 

Ezio looked over his shoulder and then forward again at where Federico was staring straight back at Edward’s impassive (angry) face. “In a minute,” Ezio said.

Desmond walked up to stand by him, put one arm in front of him in a way that was dangerously reminiscent of their childhood. If Altair were still an angry grade-schooler he would have been grabbing Desmond’s arm and trying to get around him to where the big boys were rolling in the dirt. 

“If he’s embarrassed by what’s on this, maybe he shouldn’t leave it laying around,” Federico said. 

Edward made a face that was a perfect mockery of sympathy. He stuck his thumbs into the front pockets of his jeans and settled into a posture of relaxation. His bare feet kicked at the grass as he nodded. “Sure. By that logic, if you were embarrassed by what I know, you wouldn’t piss me off.”

“Edw—”

“You enjoyed playing princesses when were children,” Edward said. Federico drew a breath in and his face flushed out red in a way that was satisfying and awful all at once. “You cried when you watched The Brave Little Toaster.”

“Shut up,” Federico said. He threw the phone approximately in Altair’s direction. It landed in the grass and he bent over to pick it up. 

Ezio was sidling up in the space between Altair and Federico to put up a hand like attempting to defuse a bomb. “It was in poor taste we—”

“He peed on you,” Edward said. “Twice. You should have seen your father’s face when he found you crying in the yard, Ezio. I don’t think Giovanni has ever been that angry about anything since then.” 

Federico shoved Edward and knocked him back a step and a half. “You are a disgrace to our family!” he shouted. “Shut your mouth or I will shut it for you.”

Edward cocked one eyebrow up. “Will you?”

“That’s enough,” Ezio was saying, “we will just go. Fed—” He was trying to grab his brother’s arm but Federico was shaking him off even while Ezio was trying to apologizing for him.

“What’s wrong?” Edward said. “Aren’t your secrets available for the public? Don’t you enjoy being made a fool of?” He stepped to the side to avoid Federico trying to grab him. There was no joy on his face. “Oh,” he said with a snap of his fingers. “I have not told them the best story! What were you doing the day your baby brother died, Federico?”

Desmond covered his eyes with his hand as Claudia made a low sound like invoking a god. Ezio sagged backward with a gesture of helplessness. It was simply not worth the effort to prevent the fight that was sure to follow. Altair had his phone tucked into his pocket and Federico was throwing punches that Edward had purposefully provoked out of him. The sound of fists landing against skin was loud even over the way Ezio simply turned around and walked away. 

Altair got a running start and slammed his body (sideways) into Federico to knock him over. He managed not to fall over by the grace of grabbing Edward’s arm and dragging him down instead. Edward didn’t fall but stagger a few feet forward while Federico tried to get back to his feet intent on getting the vengeance that he felt he deserved. “You want to know what’s on the phone? I’ll fucking tell you! I don’t want to be like you! That’s what’s on the phone. I don’t want to be a childish, emotionally-stunted asshole that takes cheap shots at people for my own amusement! I don’t want to have to hit someone just to prove I’m a _god damned_ man. I want to undo the _damage_ you have done to me.” Altair was shake-shake-shaking with a quiver in his tightening fists and a dull silence all around him he could barely hear over his breath and the roar of blood in his ears.

Edward was wiping blood off his chin and Federico was staring up at him with an expression between disbelief and condescending amusement. Ezio stopped in his retreat to look at him sideways while Claudia stood there with a hand over her mouth.

Altair didn’t give a shit what they did. He walked away before they could fight-or-not and shouldered his way past the men with cameras recording his departure. Desmond fell into step next to him after a brief pause and his elbow knocked into Altair’s arm. “What?” he demanded.

“I’m proud of you,” Desmond said. He slung an arm over Altair’s shoulders and hugged him.

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> What’s wrong with Leonardo?
> 
> Hello to you too, Malik.
> 
> Hello Sofia.
> 
> My brother says something’s wrong
> 
> Leonardo is avoiding me
> 
> I’ll come get your brother and take him to the movies or to get food or something.
> 
> Leonardo isn’t telling me.
> 
> You’ll need space to sort this out
> 
> I’m not angry with you Sofia
> 
> I hope you’re okay
> 
> I’m better right now than I was ten minutes ago.
> 
> I’ll see you?
> 
> It would be nice

It was inconceivable to imagine that Malik had managed to corner Leonardo. The man was a genius that was quicker and more alert than anyone else Malik had ever met. So when they found themselves alone (and Kadar safely off with Sofia to go to a buffet and gorge) with Leonardo slouching into the couch and Malik feeling awkward with confrontation in front of him, Malik knew that it was because it had been allowed to happen. That thought was encouraging.

“What’s wrong?” Malik asked.

Leonardo sighed. Then he dropped the sketch pad to the side. “I thought I was watching you die and there was nothing I could do to save you.” 

“I don’t remember,” Malik said. He motioned toward his entire left side. “I don’t remember any of this. I don’t remember the car. I remember we decided to leave because of finals but I don’t remember getting in the car. I just _woke up_ like this. I don’t know why I lost my arm. I don’t know why I lost my spleen.” 

Leonardo sat up and rubbed a hand through his hair. “I can’t forget.”

“Show me,” Malik said. “Show me what it was like. Show me what happened to my arm.” The words were so compulsive they felt out of control falling out of his mouth. “Show me so I can know and I can move on because I keep thinking that maybe they were wrong. Maybe this wasn’t necessary. Maybe I should sue those doctors for taking something from me I should never have lost. Maybe I wouldn’t be stuck trying to remember.”

“This is a bad idea,” Leonardo said.

“I want to _fucking know!_ ” Malik shouted. “You don’t. Take what you can’t get out of your head and put it on paper, make it a fucking sculpture or—whatever you have to do. You told me that art gets the horror stories out of your head. I’m a _horror story_ , Leonardo. Get me out of your head.” He wasn’t sure when the tears started squeezing out of his eyes, only that they were all down his cheeks by the time he wiped the back of his hand across his face. “Please.”

Leonardo stood up and Malik stepped back. He watched the pain of the denial of contact cross Leonardo’s face and felt a pang of regret that wasn’t strong enough to make him stand and allow himself to be touched. “I don’t want to do this,” Leonardo said.

“Then don’t,” Malik snapped.

“I will,” Leonardo said. “There was no mistake. Your arm could not be saved. If it will help you, I’ll do it.” He looked as if he were going to try to get closer again and instead motioned toward the art supplies in the dining room. “I’ll go get started drawing up ideas.”

It wasn’t (at all) what Malik had intended to do. The guilt-and-uncertain pain nagged at him when Leonardo turned to go. He maybe-maybe-didn’t mean to catch Leonardo by the arm and pull him back to hug him. There was a known (welcome) comfort in Leonardo’s body. It settled against his full of warmth and indestructible nearness. The lips against his temple were gentle and the hands that pressed to the center of his back were desperate for reassurance. “Thank you,” Malik said. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Sent you a picture of my new cock tattoo. I know you have this thing about me and semi-nudity so I kept my shirt on and tried to be as modest as possible about showing you it. 
> 
> In other news, I yelled at my cousins three days ago and they still haven’t said anything about it. I’m not sure if it’s good news or not.

It was Monday again before Federico sat in the chair to his left with a tall glass of ice water and a resigned quiet. He didn’t settle to stay for long but stayed stiffly perched at the edge while he held onto the sweating drink. “I was arrested the day Petruccio died. I had gotten intoxicated with a man I thought was my friend and we decided to try to steal something. I was arrested and put into a holding cell while they called my parents. I stayed in that awful place for fourteen hours before my Father came for me. When he finished getting me released, he slapped me on the face and told me I was a worthless child.” Federico made a motion with his hand in front of him that dismissed it. “He was in pain then. Petruccio was—he was like this fragile, _beautiful_ angel. The whole of his life, he was dying faster than he was growing. He knew that he did not have long and he did not spend his life angry and hateful. He loved each person to the best of his ability and asked for almost nothing.” Federico smiled so quick it was easy to think Altair had just imagined it. “Feathers. My brother collected feathers. He told my Mother when he died, he would like to become an eagle. He said that he was not afraid to die as long as he had his family there to protect him.” Federico rubbed his forehead with one slippery thumb. “And I wasn’t. I was angry at him for being sick. I was angry at my family for loving him the way they did. I was angry at God for ever letting Petruccio be born. I was angry and because I was angry I was stupid. Because I was stupid, I wasn’t there when my brother died. I didn’t protect him.” 

“You didn’t have to tell me,” Altair said. He cleared his throat and tried to figure out something to say. 

Federico shrugged and looked at him. There was pink around his eyes. “I know I didn’t have to. I did anyway.” Then he got up again. “You are not the child I thought you were. I’m still going to pick on you. Don’t take it so personally.” Then he was walking away again before Altair could even try to explain there was no way to take it except personally.


	42. Chapter 42

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> graphic descriptions of serious injuries contained herein. beware.

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> In my defense, that thing smelled horribly when I got it. It had a very industrial stink about it. It was also as hard as a rock. I had to have it taken apart and reassembled. Then it smelled too new so carried it around for a day before I sent it. I don’t like the impersonal way brand new things smell. 
> 
> I realize you have been going through some serious things on your end. What with you demanding that your artist friend use his talent to recreate your arm from the accident, finally talking to the woman that was driving the car and the thing where your brother is trying to help you get over not wanting people near you. But I can’t help but notice it’s been almost two weeks since I confessed I can’t stand the thought of men maybe wanting to flirt with me and you haven’t responded to it at all.
> 
> _S. Badger wrote:_  
>  I cannot believe that you actually sent me a stuffed badger. I can believe that actually. I’m having trouble believing that you found a stuffed honey badger. I’m having trouble accepting the fact that it seems to have been sprayed with some kind of cologne. I’m just having trouble dealing with this. You’re stupid. 

It was Lucy, not Desmond-Ezio-Claudia-Federico-Edward or even Mrs. Finch that finally asked him what the black band tattooed on his upper left arm was for. It had healed nicely, dark and even with minimal fuss. He was drinking juice (early in the morning) when Lucy limped into the kitchen with her hair in a disastrous pony tail and pajamas comprised of one of Desmond’s shirts and a pair of pants with kittens on them. 

“What happened?” Altair asked. He made a nodding motion at her left leg that seemed to be lagging as she went over to the fridge to dig out something to eat. She retrieved a yogurt and some blueberries before kicking the door shut. 

“I pulled a muscle fucking your cousin,” Lucy said. She pulled a chair out from under the table and dropped into it with a grateful sigh. Then she made a low whining noise when she realized she’d neglected to get a spoon.

Altair got one for her and sat around the corner from her at the table. He set his glass down while she peeled the foil off the top. She licked the yogurt off it before she folded it up and set it down again. He watched because he was wasting time waiting for Sass to reply to him and thinking about how he probably should put a shirt on because fuck knows when those men with the cameras were going to show up again. They were inordinately pleased any time they caught one or more of them without their shirts on. 

“What’s with that?” Lucy asked. She motioned to his arm before she mixed the blueberries into her yogurt. When he didn’t answer immediately (or at all, really. He didn’t have an answer), she said, “Sass?”

“Not everything has to do with Sass,” Altair said.

“Of course not,” Lucy said. “But this does.”

Altair nodded and finished off his juice. “Are you going to get Desmond to massage your leg?”

“Well I tried,” Lucy said. “But that ended with us fucking again.” Her smile wasn’t even vaguely apologetic but pink-with-pride. She was still smiling to herself when Altair rolled his eyes and went down the back hallway up to the bedrooms. He ran into Desmond who was fixing his T-shirt over his chest and trying to tip his head in such a way as to look at the hickeys on his own neck. When he bumped into Altair he blushed before anything could even be said on the matter. 

“Maybe you should start going for conjugal visits while she’s stuck in the city at work,” Altair said. “Sex deprivation seems to be bad for her.” He slapped Desmond on the arm with a grin and Desmond just blushed up redder and shook his head as he went down toward the kitchen.

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Will this thing were we talk to one another awkwardly through texts eventually lead to being able to see one another in person?
> 
> I feel like I’m not the only person doing the avoiding.
> 
> I wear a lot of hats. I have a scar on my forehead that goes into my hair and it changes the way my hair falls. 
> 
> So I wear hats now.
> 
> I keep reaching to pick up things with my left arm.
> 
> It never works but I keep trying.
> 
> I’m sorry
> 
> Sofia.
> 
> It’s not your fault. Nobody blames you.
> 
> Blame the asshole that ran the red light.
> 
> Remember that everyone that loved you before still loves you now.

Love was not Malik’s primary problem. Well it was, since love ended with Kadar sleeping in the bed next to him with obnoxious persistence born of his (or their Mother’s) notion that if he enforced proximity that Malik would have to address his aversion to being near people. Mother would think of something like that. She was absolute with her handling of problems, everything could be cured through repeated trials. Things that were lacking could be strengthened with effort.

Malik wanted to tell Kadar to get the fuck out. The words were constantly behind his teeth. Nagging at him every time Kadar did anything that was helpful or reassuring to him. Whenever his brother’s alarm went off on his phone and he said, “do your stretches” without looking up from whatever he was doing. Whenever Kadar found him sitting or lying wrong and said, “watch your posture.” In the bathroom with the locking door where his brother helped him redo the wrapping on his stump and Kadar’s lip was caught between his teeth as he checked for skin breakdown and signs of infection. Whenever he walked next to him outside where anyone could see them and he poked Malik’s insecurity with cautious fingers. 

It seemed like such a small, insignificant thing to let Kadar sleep at his side. It seemed like a real, physical victory for him. Something that he could hold up and laud as his accomplishment despite all the obstacles.

It wasn’t such a burden except when Kadar woke up with a loud growl of annoyance and a pained grimace. He was clumsy getting out of bed and staggering toward the bathroom in the semi-dark. “Fucking boners,” he muttered to himself. Malik didn’t tease him in part because being a teenager was hard enough and also because Kadar was far more perverted than he was. 

\--

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, is even more handsome in person. Take my word on this. (2m ago)

Desmond hadn’t seen Altair react like an arched-back-cat hissing-at-danger in long enough that the acute stiffness and distaste relayed through his body language the exact moment Maria Thorpe showed up at their door was a shock. Altair didn’t even stay while the camera’s lingered on the introductions and Ezio’s grand show of welcome. He walked away as soon as he saw her and stayed hidden until Desmond found him in the library sitting sideways in one of the large leather arm chairs. He wasn’t reading but holding his phone up and squinting at it.

“What does this bitch want?” Altair asked. He flipped his phone around and showed Desmond the tweet. “I don’t understand what she wants.”

“Apparently she wants you,” Desmond said. He didn’t sit but run his fingers across the spines of the books on the shelves. They were made to look nice, some of them were hollow or blank but all of them were nice to look at. “Or she wants people to think she wants you. You were the one that played along.”

“That’s Grandma’s rules!” Altair said. 

Lucy found them only a minute later. “What the hell is wrong with this woman? Didn’t I tell you to tell her to jump off your dick? And did you know that Ezio is putting her in the room next to yours? I’ll punch him in his tiny Italian dick,” she said. The venom in her voice was so outstanding that even Altair stared at her with his mouth half-way open.

“See?” Altair said. “ _She_ gets it.”

Desmond sighed. “Try telling her that you don’t want to be involved.” Then he looked at Lucy who wasn’t even slightly repentant with her hands on her hips and her teeth clenched together. “How do you know what Ezio’s dick is like?”

“I don’t but he’s the sort of guy that’d take it personally if I insinuated it was below average size,” she said. “And he put that woman next to Altair’s room. Why not just put her in his bed?” The whole conversation was interrupted by a gentle knock at the door behind them and the woman herself standing there looking smugly amused about what she may or may not have overheard.

Lucy didn’t hiss at her but she might as well have. Altair scoffed in disgust and Desmond rubbed his thumb against the space between his eyes. He was working out something to say when Altair got up. “Hello Maria,” he said.

“Hello handsome,” Maria said. She didn’t move out of the doorway so that when Altair tried to leave, he had to sidle sideways next to her. They were as close as lovers when she stepped forward. She whispered something (in what sounded like French) that made Altair roll his eyes. “Please?” Maria asked.

“Sure, go find someone with a camera. I know how important it is that people see you drooling over me,” Altair said. 

Maria narrowed her eyes at him but then turned with a grace sweep of her skirt and went to fetch a man with a camera. Once she was gone, Lucy was scoffing, “maybe I’ll punch you in the dick,” in Altair’s direction.

“I think she’s just as likely to do it,” Desmond whispered sideways. Altair gave them the finger as he left the room.

\--

> ### Wordless Wednesdays: Alliteration is Always Appropriate
> 
> [Photograph of Altair doing a one armed handstand in grass. Ezio is visible to the side looking as if he were about to shout something and Claudia is sitting with her legs crossed in front of her not very far from where Altair is. Her shirt is pulled up on the sides in a manner that suggests she had been doing handstands a moment earlier.]
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Wordless Wednesdays, W: Showoff,_

Kadar had a lot of free time (not spent doing his make-up work for school) because Malik took three hour naps in the middle of the day as well as sleeping all night. It was either a side effect of depression or a consequence of major traumatic injuries and sudden life-changing surgery. Either way, it gave him a lot of time to be stuck in the same little apartment. 

It gave him a chance to watch Leonardo work on his sculpture. Whatever the conversation between his brother and Leonardo it seemed to have ended with Leonardo recreating the same accident that was causing all the problems. He had a fresh sketch pad filled with half-finished things like partially crushed cars and bloody messes. There was only one that he ever looked at when he was working on the sculpture (that he worked on only when Malik was not awake) it was a diagram of injuries with little black lines leading to detailed descriptions. He checked it now and again, and the one across the bottom that was a line drawing of what looked nothing like anything _human_. 

“Need anything?” Kadar asked. He didn’t sit and take up space because there wasn’t enough of it on the table as it was. Leonardo had finished the wire framework the day before and was now working clay with a blank but determined expression fixed on his face. “Food? Have you eaten?”

“I’m fine,” Leonardo said. He stopped long enough to look at Kadar with a critical eye. “Are you thinner than you were before?”

“I don’t think so but if I am, I’m not complaining.” He motioned toward the door. “I think the walking is doing it. I didn’t usually walk a few miles every day.”

Leonardo nodded his head. “Remember not to let your attempts to return him to health deteriorate your own. If we are not feeding you enough, say something. I cannot return you to your mother in poor condition.”

Kadar laughed. “She wouldn’t hurt you much.” (But she wouldn’t be pleased either. Kadar was afraid his Mother’s disapproval more than he was afraid of anything else.) “If you haven’t come up for air in two hours I’m going to make lunch.”

“Thanks,” Leonardo said. And then, like an afterthought, he said, “hey. Maybe tomorrow you could go see a movie with Sofia or something?”

“Is this another one of those things where you and Malik get rid of me so you can have grown-up conversations?” Not that he minded because the last time he got to eat until he was too fat to walk. It had been a glorious use of his time.

“No. Your brother has therapy tomorrow so he will not need you most of the day. Sofia agreed to take you if you wanted to go.” He waited only until Kadar nodded before he went back to working on the clay.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t feel like I have an answer. Clearly this person has a motive that you need to uncover. 
> 
> In reference to your statements about being afraid of other men making sexual advances toward you. What I have to say on the matter will not be an easy thing for you to hear. I’ve been trying to figure out a neutral way to say it because I’m aware that this is an incredibly sensitive subject for you. I’m not very polite or very good at handling subjects with care at full health so the task is currently nearly impossible. I apologize for my bluntness. 
> 
> Have you considered that you are attracted to men which is actually completely possible despite the fact that you are very obviously attracted to women as well? Have you considered that somewhere along the line you have fused the notion of masculinity involving dominance and aggressive behavior, and the sad misconception that homosexuality is emasculating and weak thus whenever another man finds you attractive and is willing to have sex with you some part of you wants to do it and therefore you over react to cover it up and reassert your own toxic sense of masculinity because to be anything but the perfect man is an intolerable idea for you?
> 
> Basically, Altair. I think you might be gay. It’s more likely that you’re bisexual given the sheer number of female sexual partners you’ve had. I think that your attraction to women is sincere. I also think that you would rub dicks with another guy and like it if you weren’t afraid of someone thinking you were weak and gay.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  How do you tell a woman that you’re not interested in a way that makes it absolutely clear that despite the fact you once pretended to be sexually attracted to her in a bar that you really aren’t and could you just stop already? None of the ways I tried have worked.

The first mistake was reading the e-mail. The second was slamming the phone down on the table. The third was looking up because he was _furious_ (and hurt and fucking _scared_ ) and Maria Thorpe was standing there in her sunbathing bikini looking porcelain pale and available. There was a bored man with a camera watching them gathering beverages for everyone that was outside melting in the sun while they debated the merits of going to a pool or a beach.

“Didn’t like something you read?” she asked. “You shouldn’t waste your time reading what everyone thinks of you.” Her hair was black as oil and her (almost entirely naked) body was fantastic to look at. 

Altair ran his tongue across his lips and cleared his throat (to edge out the lump stuck there) but he didn’t get a word out before she was suddenly standing in front of his chair, both of her legs between his knees and her hand on the back of the seat as she looked at him with such bittersweet sympathy. He put a hand on her leg because she wanted him to and she smiled at him. “You read a lot of what people think about you?” he said.

“I am aware of the general consensus.” Then she lifted one of her legs to put across his and sank down into his lap in a way that might as well been pornographic. The edges of her bikini bottoms moving loosely in a way that gave him a clear view (albeit brief) of everything before she grabbed him by the face with her thumb nail digging into his skin and her fingers petting his cheek. “Perhaps you shouldn’t waste your time with figments when there are real people.” Her mouth was very close to his and Altair was angry-as-hell with both of his hands resting across her thighs. Her body was spread over his like an invitation. 

(It was like a pulse in his head, like a constant thrumming pulse, that he wanted _this_. He wanted _women_ , he wanted—oh hell, oh shit, oh—he wanted _breasts_ not dicks and it wasn’t that fucking hard to understand.)

Maybe it was-her or it-might-have-been-him but it didn’t matter who started it because he was tonguing Maria Thorpe with a hand in her hair and her body like a hot-damp imprint all across his. It was a violently, vicious victory when he got hard. 

“Were you going to –OH!” It was Claudia’s voice interrupting and Maria’s body hunched forward against his because his busy fingers had found their way to the back of her bikini and pulled the strings before he’d even realized it. Her arms were clamped across her breasts as her wet mouth smiled into his neck. The camera man was standing to the side with a nod of approval while Claudia just shook her head across the room. “So I guess you are _not_ getting drinks. That might have been nice to know before you decided to—” she made a motion at them with her hand, “in the kitchen.”

“Sorry,” Maria said but for an Oscar-nominated actress it sounded entirely insincere. She grabbed a towel off the table and dragged it across her breasts before she stood up and retreated up the back hallway toward the bedrooms. 

“Pig,” Claudia hissed at him. “Well follow her! Finish what you started.”

Altair was going to explain how he had every right to do that but Lucy walked in with a confused spread of her arms and her mouth open to ask what had happened. Claudia relayed the incident while Altair got up and grabbed his phone. He left before he could get lectured about how he was supposed to be loyal to some bitch that couldn’t be bothered to even tell him what her real name was. Upstairs, he hovered at the doorway of his room and left it to go down the hall to his Grandmother’s room and slammed her door so hard it rattled in the frame. He locked the door and went through the well-kept shrine and climbed into the claw-foot tub. It had a perfect slope for slouching and when he kicked his foot against the edge of it nobody could show up and bother him for answers.

“Fuck,” he said as he kicked the side of the tub. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m not gay.

Kadar wasn’t sure what the hell Malik had read (and he couldn’t steal his phone to check his mail) but it had made his face twitch before going entirely neutral. It was the resting face of denial and apathy which meant whatever it was could not possibly have been good. He was supposed to leave to go see a movie with Sofia and his brother was having relationship problems (nothing less could make Malik’s face do that) that were going to derail his recovery.

“Hey,” Kadar said (since he couldn’t ask what Altair had done), “come say hello to Sofia?”

It was taking advantage of Malik’s desire to avoid the situation by giving him something else to concentrate on. Any other time, it wouldn’t have worked because Malik’s desire to avoid Sofia would have outweighed his attempts at moving on. This time, Malik’s desire to avoid his phone outweighed anything else. So he got up and followed Kadar downstairs to where Sofia was standing by her car looking casual with a baseball cap and blue shorts. She was looking down at her phone in her hand, turning it over and over. When she heard the sound of their footsteps she looked up and smiled at him in the half-second before she saw his brother. 

“Malik,” she said. Her body moved compulsively. She was all but running to get her arms around Malik and he allowed it with a surprised grace. He even put his hand on her back and patted her. When she pulled back she looked at his hair (but not the scar there) and his face and smiled. “It’s good to see you.”

“Yeah,” Malik said. He was looking at her face, up at her forehead and she must have realized it because she pulled the cap off her head. Her fingers pushed her hair up to show the long-slim scar that ran across her forehead and into her hair. It was a faint pink color (barely noticeable). “That’s not bad at all,” Malik said. 

“It feels weird when I move my forehead,” Sofia said. She put her cap back on. “You really do look good.”

“Thanks,” Malik assured her. Leonardo was coming down the steps behind them. Both of them turned to look at him. “He doesn’t.”

“No,” Sofia agreed. “You working on that?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. Then he touched her shoulder absently with a squeeze before he moved away. “I have to go listen to people tell me how to feel for a few hours. Talk to you later.”

It wasn’t much but it was (at least) a start.

\--

> ###  _June 7, 2008_ : Sexy Saturdays 021: short and nondescript
> 
> This is the entire submission, folks:
> 
> “I woke up alone in a hotel room covered in pizza sauce.”
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays,_
> 
> • **Son-of-no-one**  
>  That never happened.

Desmond didn’t check the Sett often but Altair had been in a shitty mood for days. Far shittier than Maria’s (apparently not entirely unwanted) advances explained. Lucy was angry (most of the day) because Maria was an unknown interloper that created trouble wherever she went by flirting with Altair and asking him to rub lotion on her and making out with him in the kitchen. 

“Well,” Desmond muttered at the computer when he saw the last post, Altair’s immediate denial and then his idiot’s cousin’s aggressive exercising. Altair was doing pull ups using the railing from the massive curved staircase in the front of the house. He had been at it long enough that his shirt was soaked in sweat and his arms were quivering with every motion but his grim-faced frown hadn’t lessened even the slightest. “Shit,” he said. He dropped the computer and went over to sit on the staircase where he could watch Altair’s hands tighten and loosen their sweaty grip. 

“What?” Altair demanded. 

“You told me there was a pizza sauce incident,” Desmond said.

“Leave it the fuck alone,” Altair said. There was no humor in his voice. There was nothing in his voice. It was hollowed out of anything resembling humanity. The way his face was a perfect picture of passive fury. 

Desmond rubbed his hand across the back of his neck and tried to work out what to say next. He wasn’t trying to force any confidences that Altair wasn’t comfortable with but he didn’t like the thought of Altair letting this one fester. “Was there something special about the pizza sauce incident? You aren’t usually ashamed of your sexual conquests.”

Altair pulled himself up far enough to get his knee against the ledge of the staircase and climbed over it to drop down to his feet in front of Desmond. “I said leave it.” Altair was storming past him all fury and black clouds. 

Yes well. “Was it a man?” He squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath. The sudden stop of all motion was as damning as the hiss of breath that followed it. Desmond turned around on the stairs and only just caught the expression of horror that went like a mask across Altair’s entire face. The absolute nature of the shame that preceded the violent curl of his fists was staggering. Desmond got to his feet before Altair could decide to attack. “For fucks sake,” Desmond said.

Altair turned when he came closer, head low and shoulder’s hunched. His demeanor and expression that of a rabid animal being backed into a corner.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Desmond said. “We never have to talk about it.” He put his hands up in front of him. “But you need to understand that it doesn’t fucking matter who you want to have sex with. I will love you regardless. You will be a _man_ regardless.”

Altair said nothing but turned around and walked away from him. The echoing slam of his door added a pointed punctuation to his denial.

\--

> FROM: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [Notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> I realize that your sister is going through something intense at the moment. I do not know what was said between the two of them. I would not ask anyone to take back anything they said if it was said honestly. However, please convince her to-- I don’t even. Convince her to do something. It’s not good here.

Kadar was supposed to be doing his homework (which he was not in the slightest bit interested in doing) and the pounds and pounds of make-up work that he’d missed. There were textbooks full of information he was supposed to learn and retain but instead he was reading e-mails sent to his Sass account. He was reading e-mails from concerned cousins asking for help.

While he didn’t want to get involved (because down that path lay madness and he was up to his ears in madness) he also didn’t want to do anymore Alegbra II Trig homework. He tucked his phone into his back pocket and went looking for his brother. Malik was sitting out on the patio with that stuffed badger he’d gotten a week or so ago enjoying the relaxing damp rain and the ugly gray sky. He looked up when Kadar opened the door and then returned to staring at the rain.

“So when you hijacked my original post to put up your own story—I thought, well this won’t end well. I didn’t realize that you were mounting a concentrated effort to break Altair. Which seems pretty fucking shitty when you consider that you’re sitting out here with his stuffed badger.”

Malik sighed. “I was mad.”

“You’re lying to him,” Kadar said. “I understand why you think you have to. But you can’t lie to him _and_ torture him. There’s a line somewhere that you’ve crossed and I don’t think you realize it.”

“Here’s a thought,” Malik said. He picked the stuffed badger up from where it was wedged between his thigh and the arm of the chair and set it in his lap as he leaned forward. “Maybe, he ruined my life and I hated him and it changed everything. Maybe I ruined his. Imagine what he must have felt like waking up next to me. See, I thought that he was just a dickhead. Now I think,” Malik licked his lips and pressed them together. He let out a sound that was bitter and shallow. “I think he must feel the way I did. _Foul_ and _ugly_ and _disgusting_. I think he must be _ashamed_ and _horrified_ that for all his trying he simply can’t force _this thing_ to cease existing.”

“Well aren’t you perfect for one another?” Kadar said. “Please don’t let him suffer, Malik.”

“I’m so _mad_ and I feel so _hurt_ ,” Malik said. He looked down at the badger and then shook his head. “Not because I don’t exist. Because I can’t help him. Because I am the problem.”

Kadar rolled his eyes. “You can and you will because you’re the only person he’ll talk to about this. And it’s fucked up. And it’s wrong on a lot of levels but it’s where you are now. You have to help him and you have to be gentle. Not for yourself. For _him_.”

Malik snorted. He looked out at the rain rather than look at Kadar. The silence dragged on until the sound of the front door opening signal’s Leonardo’s return. His footsteps through the apartment were followed by the sound of his voice calling for them. “You know those cookies Mom made us all the time?”

“The cinnamon ones?” Kadar asked. “Yes?”

“Ask her how to make them?”

“Is it something that’s going to help you fix what you broke?” Kadar asked. Malik nodded but didn’t elaborate because Leonardo was pulling the door open and sticking his head out. “Hi,” Kadar said. Then he got up and went back inside to call his Mother.

\--

EzioAuditore: pro-tip, never, ever, ever insult a woman before playing an after dark in the old family mansion game of laser tag (20m ago)

BestofThree: @EzioAuditore, do not be sore! You deserved to lose. (19m ago)

Coffee4College: @bestofthree, how can he NOT be sore? We kicked his ass and he fell off the landing. (15m ago)

Lucy was crowing her victory with her laser gun in the air and her arms raised over her head. She had taken the logical precaution of wearing all back and hiding her blond-blond hair in a dark colored beanie. Claudia was wearing charcoal gray and smirking victoriously from where she sat on the stairs.

“You lost,” Lucy said. “Look at all of you dragging your feet! You were talking so much shit earlier and you lost!”

Federico gave her the finger while Ezio lay sprawled out on the floor in abject, miserable defeat. But Desmond got dragged up against Lucy’s body and kissed with lewd intensity.

Altair dropped his gun on the pile and pulled the sensors off to drop them too. “Good job, Lucy. Claudia.” Then he left them to cheer about their victory and retreated back to his room with the locking door that kept him far away from their nagging concern or illicit interest in his body.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> After you get your mail, send me a message?

Malik simply was not prepared to deal with the thing that Leonardo had created. He’d watched it grow piece-by-piece until Leonardo started covering it when he wasn’t working on it. What he’d seen was a half-realized nightmare that he couldn’t even remember. When it was done, Leonardo found him and said, “ready?” with his eyes bruised from exhaustion and his whole body caving from the effort of scraping the horror out of the inside of his skull.

Then ended up in the living room where Leonardo had set up a display of three mirrors. He had a selection of paints sitting on the ground and a collection of different paint brushes lying next to them. “If you want me to do this, I have to do it all. Are you sure?” 

Yes. He was sure. He stripped off his shirt and Leonardo tugged his pants so they were low on his hips before he settled down on his knees in front of him. There was nothing sexual or even teasingly inviting about the way Leonardo’s hand went across the still bruise-mottled side of his body. His thumb found the surgical scar and traced it up in an arch before dropping away. “If I start crying, it’s probably just stress,” Leonardo said.

Malik bit his lip and nodded (for lack of anything better to say to such a statement). The paint was cold and slick on his skin, tacky and thick while drying and pasty and strange when it was fully dry. Leonardo worked diligently and quietly, layering color after color across the side of his body where he’d absorbed the impact of the car that hit them.

“I don’t think about the person that did this,” Malik said when the silence got too thick. He closed his eyes to keep from watching the layers of paint building up to show the horror he’d slept through. “I told Sofia to blame the man that ran the red light but I haven’t thought about him. I don’t know—there was a police officer that came while I was in the hospital to ask me for my statement and I told them I didn’t remember anything. I want to angry at _him_ because it makes sense and I’m angry at a god I don’t believe in. I’m angry at surgeons that saved my life. But not that asshole that couldn’t be bothered to stop at a red light.”

“It was your lawyer that demanded criminal charges be filed,” Leonardo said. “I met him because he came to speak to me while you were in the hospital. He was a tall guy, very thin and grim-faced. He said that he _represented you in all legal matters_. He wanted to know what happened that night. He wrote everything down and left.” Leonardo got up to his feet. It was his fingers that dabbed little drops of paint onto his face and spread them across his forehead and down his cheek and over his ear. The paint was as cold as it had ever been but it felt as hot as blood against his overheated skin. 

“I spoke to him. On the phone. I didn’t realize he was here. He called to assure me that the insurance company had agreed to pay for my hospitalization.” There was paint slick and wet across the top of his left eyelid and dabs of it across his cheek and lip. The taste of it at the seam of his mouth was stale. 

“Good,” Leonardo said. “I would advise you not to dwell on anger. I advise myself about it often enough. I continue to work toward forgiveness but I get caught again and again on the damage that was done and for the stupidest of reasons. He was late for a party, you know. He ran the red light because he was late for a party and everyone always gives him shit for being late to a party. That’s what he said.” Leonardo moved away as the paint dried and cleared his throat. “Don’t move.”

He left and returned again, used his hand to lift Malik’s stump and slid the sculpture up around it. There were straps that went across his chest and one that tightened around his upper arm to hold it in place. When it was secure and the unfamiliar weight was hanging dead at his side, Leonardo said, “that’s all of it.”

Malik took in a breath and let it out again. He reached out into the blank space at his right side, feeling the air for wherever Leonardo had gone and felt his hand slide up against his and squeeze. He opened his eyes before the paint was full dry and—

The reflection was a massacre. The blood across his face was a stringy red veins and a thick red wash across his ear. His side was speckled with red impact marks and quick-forming bruises. There was an open gash with peeled red edges on his flank. There was blood absolutely everywhere on his body. Spread out in spurts and spots. 

But it was his arm. The thing that hung limply and dead at his side that he could not look away from. He looked down at it, at the white fleck of crushed bone, the ugly yellow-red of the blood and the inhuman flatness of his forearm. The joint simply did not exist. Four of his fingers were missing from his hand and the one that remained was dangling loosely on a white string from the disgusting mess. 

“This is what you remember?” Malik whispered. His fingers tightened around Leonardo’s hand so hard it felt like he could snap his long-long fingers. Then it was simply _too immense_ of thing to stand. He let go of Leonardo to scratch at the buckle holding the awful thing at his side and said, “get this off, get this off of me.” 

Leonardo was quick with the buckles and Malik kicked the thing away from him. He was crying (again) and Leonardo’s face was twisted around in a pain that seemed equal (or far worse, in its own way) than his own. “I’m sorry.” He held his fingers up against what remained of Malik’s left arm. “I put my fingers right here,” he pressed against the fast-thrum of the artery beneath his skin. “Your blood was all over me. It was in my hair and on my face and in my mouth and all over my hands. It was—” He stopped and cleared his throat. 

Malik put an arm around him and pulled him up against his body. They were raw and unfamiliar with one another. Leonardo was too-tall to fit against him easily and stiff with his own unanswered hurts. But he hugged Malik back. “Help me wash it off,” Malik said. “Please?”

“I’m sorry,” Leonardo said. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do better.”

Malik hugged him all the harder, turned his head and kissed Leonardo’s cheek and his temple and stroked his hair. He held him there even when Leonardo tried to pull free and felt the trembling even before Leonardo gave in and started crying. 

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]
> 
> If the lawyer is as good at delivering things to Altair as he is delivering things to Sass, there should be a package for Altair today. Look out for it. Make sure he gets it.

Altair hadn’t slept properly in days. He wasn’t gay. He wasn’t in denial.

And he wasn’t interested in Maria. But it was Monday-morning (again) and she was in the kitchen touching his fingers around a small container of warm syrup. She was lounging outside in her tanning-bikini smiling at him like she knew something he didn’t. And her body was all against his side in front of the cameras as she tried to tell him how to play checkers better. She was helpful with bringing him drinks and followed him inside while Ezio whistled in approval for the benefit of the cameras. 

Every single person that had ever had the slightest influence over his life had made sure to beat the notion of _never hurt a woman_ into his head so securely that it was written on his bones. But he picked Maria up by the arms and carried her into the pantry and dropped her by the shelf of canned-goods as he kicked the door shut and flicked the light on to demand, “what the hell is your problem, Maria? What the hell are you playing at because I’m _not_ interested and if you think I’m above telling everyone you’re a persistent slut you’re very, very _wrong_ about me.”

Maria’s face dropped the pretense of flirtatious attraction. Her hands were on her hips and her expression was exhausted condescension. Her tongue was pink across her red lips as she said, “I wouldn’t doubt that for a minute,” and then just as quick, “I need you. It’s sad and unfortunate but you are the solution to my current problem.” She scoffed at the incredulous disbelief that must have mutated his face. “Imagine how I feel. To have to come begging for a favor that I am not the least bit interested in. To have to bother with it at all! It’s ridiculous!”

“What do you want?” Altair shouted at her.

“I want you to pretend to be my boyfriend,” she said. As simple as that.

“Why not find an actual boyfriend? There has to be someone willing to put up with your stupid shit,” Altair said. He motioned at her body. “You’re reasonably attractive.”

“I’m a lesbian,” Maria said. 

Well that did not explain anything. Altair stared at her with his mouth gaping open and no ability to process thoughts at all. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.” But also, “what makes you think that I’d even want to _pretend_ to be your boyfriend? I actually like having sex.”

Maria laughed at that. “I don’t care who you have sex with but as you haven’t been having sex for a few months now, I didn’t feel like it was an issue. You can continue to pursue your relationship with Sass-Badger on the internet and I get the blood thirsty hounds off my heels for a while.”

“Why not just tell them you’re a lesbian?” Altair asked. 

“Because I do not want to be ‘the lesbian actress’. Or ‘Oscar-nominated Maria Thorpe who, as you know, is a lesbian.’ I don’t want my sexual preference to be my defining characteristic as a person—and it doesn’t matter my reasons. It matters that it should be my choice. Will you help me or not?”

“No,” Altair snapped back. Then he sighed, “I don’t know. I’ll think about it. But just—stop. Please stop. I don’t want your naked body all over me all the time.”

Maria rolled her eyes at him. “Men,” she said as she moved past him. She paused by the door to shake her fingers through her hair to make it messy before she stepped out. He couldn’t see her face but he could see her shoulders go pink with tickled embarrassment at whoever was standing in the kitchen to catch her.

It was Desmond, standing by the kitchen table with his hand on a brown box and a disapproving frown trailing after Maria’s retreating back. “One day you’re going to explain that to me, right? Whatever _that_ whole thing is?” (Yes, Altair might explain it if he ever understood it.) “This is from Sass. I was supposed to make sure you got it.” 

Altair looked at the box and saw the lawyer’s address on it. (Of course she sent it through the lawyer. Her aversion to discovery was strong.) He picked it up and tested it for weight (not very heavy at all) before tucking it under his arm, “thanks,” and going up the back staircase to his room. He dropped the box on his bed and stood there looking at it while he tried to work out of if he even wanted to open it. 

Sass hadn’t ever sent him anything. (Except a variety of terrible comments and a litany of rude commentary on his life’s choices.) Altair opened it because there was no way he wasn’t going to open it. The tape came away easily and he pulled the flaps open and sat on the bed to pull out the insides. There was a metal canister that proclaimed itself to be butter cookies but was actually filled with home-made cookies that smelled sweetly of cinnamon. He picked one up and it crumbled on the edges as he tried to get it into his mouth. 

He let the flavor soak into tongue as he set the tin down and picked up an (ugly, really, atrocious) stuffed eagle that smelled like hazelnut. Then there was an old book with a bent and torn cover that had been read nearly to shreds. He picked it up and opened the cover where he found a neatly folded sheet of paper. 

It said:

>   
>  Altair-  
>  It has not escaped my attention that I am asking quite a bit of you and giving very little in return. That you have labored this long under these unfair circumstances speaks to your diligence and your admirable force of will. That you have kept the secrets that I’ve asked you to despite the pain it obviously brings you amazes me.  
>  I have not asked but **demanded** a great deal of faith and trust from you. I have asked you to explore things that are painful to you. I have ridiculed you and mocked you and insulted you for the difficulty you have with addressing these issues.  
>  I am not heartless. I am not attempting to torture you. I do not wish for you to feel pain or doubt. I do not know how you feel but I, very recently, felt the same sense of being lost and hating something about myself that I could no longer deny. I did torture myself for the things that I couldn’t change and I sincerely wish for you to understand that even if it seems terrifying, the things that scare you will not always be monsters.  
>  You are better and stronger than your fears. I will not push but listen when you are ready to speak.  
>  Sass.
> 
> p.s. we should play scrabble again.

Altair closed his eyes when he finished reading it and opened them again to read it. And then again. And again. He read it until he thought he’d memorized the words and the pen imprints on the paper. Until he had each word stuck in his head (knocking around in a great disharmony with Maria’s confessions) and then he laid on the bed with the tin of cookies and the eagle that smelled like hazelnuts and read it again.

\--

> ### Chat While You Play!
> 
>   
>  Son-of-no-one: hey.  
>  Sass hi  
>  Son-of-no-one: Hazelnut?  
>  Sass: I like the smell. It might have taken vigorous scrubbing with a candle to get that eagle to smell that strong.  
>  Son-of-no-one: you rubbed a candle all over the eagle? Why an eagle?  
>  Sass: your name is Altair, it’s a star in the constellation Aquila which is an eagle.  
>  Son-of-no-one: of course you know that.  
>  Sass: are you okay?  
>  Son-of-no-one: I slept finally. That was a nice change.  
>  Sass: idiot.  
>  Son-of-no-one: those were your Mom’s cookies?  
>  Sass: well I made them with my brother, but yes.  
>  Son-of-no-one: they’re really good. I might need to set up a monthly installment plan for more.  
>  Son-of-no-one: or learn how to make them.  
>  Sass: ha. They are pretty easy to make. With the exception of the fact I can’t hold the bowl still I did a decent job doing it myself.  
>  Son-of-no-one: are you going to use a prosthetic?  
>  Sass: no.  
>  Son-of-no-one: Why?  
>  Son-of-no-one: That seems like it’d be helpful.  
>  Sass: I don’t want to. They keep making me practice with it. I don’t like how it feels. I don’t like how it looks. I don’t want one. I can learn how to do things without one.  
>  Son-of-no-one: Fair enough.  
>  Son-of-no-one: I am fully prepared to destroy you in this game of Scrabble.  
>  Sass: I’ve been reading a dictionary.  
>  Son-of-no-one: I’ll believe that when I see the proof of it.  
>  Son-of-no-one: and thanks.  
>  Sass: no problem.  
>  Sass: I really did read a dictionary.  
>  Son-of-no-one: of course you did. That’s not surprising at all.

“Hey,” Kadar whispered into the dimness of the kitchen when he stumbled off the couch toward him. “Did I miss something with you and Leonardo? I mean I don’t care if you want to have sex and all—that’s great—but if you’re going to be having sex on that bed I feel like you should tell me so I don’t sit on it.”

Malik had requisitioned the art table in the dining room for using the computer (since he had trouble holding it on his lap when he was sitting in bed) and had left it only long enough to get something to snack on while he continued to lose pitifully to the smug jerk who was some kind of savant for finding triple score squares. “Uh—no. I’m not having sex with Leonardo.”

“Oh, good. Cuddling?”

“Does that really matter to you?” Malik asked.

Kadar pressed his lips together and glared at him with his hair sticking up straight into the air on the left side and sleep lines across his cheek. “Yes. You have avoided being touched by anyone since we left the hospital. If you’re cuddling with your best friend again I think that counts as an improvement and I think Mom could really use that kind of good news.”

“Yes,” Malik said. “There was cuddling. And the sacrificial burning of his artistic interpretation of my dead arm. I’m going to go back to playing Scrabble now.”

“Good,” Kadar said. “So now all you have to do is go take those finals you missed because of the accident and we might have managed to convince Mom you’ll be alright.” He smirked at Malik’s scowl before he turned around and headed back into the dim living room to the couch he was wearing a dent into.


	43. Chapter 43

Chapter FORTY-THREE

Sass-Badger: getting ready to watch the “reunion special” of @EzioAuditore’s show. The previews lead me to believe @son-of-no-one acted poorly. (39m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, it shouldn’t surprise me you watch this show. Yet somehow it does. (37m ago)

EzioAuditore: @Sass-Badger, it does not surprise me that you watch my show. I believe @Son-of-no-one loses his shirt for a while in the episode if that’s of interest to you (35m ago)

Sass-Badger: @EzioAuditore, something has to make putting up with him worthwhile. (34m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, it’s for you that I diet and exercise, Sass. Some people do it for their own health. Not me. I do it for you. (32m ago)

Sass-Badger: I honestly did not expect Federico to sound the way he does. Why doesn’t Ezio have a stronger accent? (30m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass-Badger, because Ezio only uses his accent to pick up women and Federico is proud of his heritage. (29m ago)

Sass-Badger: Oh! @coffee4college, that is a truly impressive display. How long did it take for the bruised egos and ribs to recover from that? (23m ago)

Sass-Badger: also, should @son-of-no-one ever need a body double, anyone could mistake @Shirley-Templar for him. (22m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @Sass-Badger, they are still applying ice to the affected areas. (21m ago)

The couch was not big enough for everyone. Malik won a seat by default (as he was the only person present still recovering from major surgery) and Leonardo and Kadar had done rock-paper-scissors for the second seat. Kadar won because he was crafty and mean so Leonardo was sitting on the floor on a spare cushion with his legs out in front of him and his arm hooked over Malik’s leg. The episode involved a lot of violence and confessionals, a great deal of drama about the family dynamics and what each person thought of the other. It was also (noticeably) the first episode where Desmond’s face was completely visible. He looked exceedingly like his cousin. It was downright strange the similarities between their faces.

Kadar had the look of perpetual boredom while watching the show. Leonardo had the look of perpetual sexual frustration. 

Malik was sending his thoughts to the internet and reading through Altair’s latest e-mails (mostly about nothing) and trying to look like he cared about this nonsense. Most of it he already knew and what he didn’t wasn’t inspiring really. Watching Altair drunkenly attack his cousin brought a sharp, dark kind of guilt into his gut. 

“Hey,” Kadar said from the side, “was this when you were taunting him about how much sex you were having without him?” One of his hands was lifted up to point at the TV and his face was halfway between watching Altair frowning at the camera and catching the murderous look on Malik’s face. To his credit, Kadar realized almost instantly what he’d done and slapped a hand across his mouth before staring down at the back of Leonardo’s head in sheer horror. 

Leonardo was still a moment and then turned with unsettling slowness. The dawning realization was growing in his face and it spread across his mouth like a Cheshire grin. “I have heard the story of this internet person that was harassing Altair. I remember it came up on the show a while back—very briefly—and I thought to myself, that seems like a strange thing for someone to do.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kadar whispered between the gaps in his fingers. 

Leonardo had completely turned around and gotten up on his knees with his hands on Malik’s knees and every bit of his attention focused entirely on him. “I asked you once about how you lost your virginity and you never answered me. It’s curious that you never answered me when you have been so open about your sex life.”

“I hate you,” Malik said to Kadar (without venom) and then he kicked his foot against Leonardo’s body. “I have to finish this episode. Then we can talk about it.”

“You talk to them online?” Leonardo asked. He was half looking at the commercial for some Italian restaurant and half looking at him. “Even Ezio?”

“Yes,” Malik said. Before he could deny the notion that he would introduce Leonardo to Ezio (which he absolutely would not, as that would put Leonardo in close proximity to Altair) Leonardo was smiling at him with a dignified air of saintly (and simultaneously slutty) intent. “No,” Malik said. He looked over at Kadar to catch him staring intently at the TV screen. “ _You are in so much trouble._ ” (He hissed in Arabic.)

Kadar turned to look at him with his perfect angel smile. “ _But I love you_.”

“Remember I have an eidetic memory and I’m a genius. I’ll learn Arabic just to figure out what you’re saying,” Leonardo said. He was watching the show again (because Ezio was on the screen) but his threat was no less sincere for his lack of attention.

\--

Horse: @Sass-Badger, so this is why you’re always frowning at the computer. Interesting. (9m ago)

Sass-Badger: that is not a frown @horse, that is my resting face. (8m ago)

NotYourBrother: @horse, how did you manage to get your screen name? (7m ago)

Horse: @notyourbrother, luck mostly. (5m ago)

It was long after midnight, somewhere between two and three in the morning when Altair wandered into the kitchen and found Maria sitting at the table in a housecoat with an empty glass and a plate of crumbs sitting in front of her. His first thought was to turn around (immediately) and retreat back up the stairs. Ignoring her continued presence in the house a full week after she was supposed to leave had given him enough time to think carefully (and continuously) about this pretend relationship she wanted them to have. She didn’t even look at him with expectation, barely looked at him at all besides lifting her head and glancing at the source of the noise.

Altair had gotten used to people giving up on him so long ago that the sensation of guilt was still an odd one. The whole stupid progression of events that had led to him trying to be a better person had led him to this exact moment where he couldn’t turn around and run away from this problem (again). So he got a water from the fridge and walked over to sit down at the table across from her. 

Maria’s smile (removed from the public eye and the nefarious intent of seducing him for the camera’s benefit) was a fragile, fluttering sort of expression (there and gone again). She swept her hair back over her shoulder and leaned back in her seat (not forward). “Why didn’t you want to have sex with me?” she asked. “I thought you’d be easier.”

That was a sadly common misconception. “I like having sex with people that want to have sex with me.”

“I did not expect you to be able to tell the difference between my pretending and genuine attraction.” Then she cleared her throat and said, “are we going to talk about it, then?”

“Why me?” Altair asked.

“Despite the many ignorant things you have said and done in your life, I feel that you are one of the few men that would do this without demanding some reward I have no interest in giving.”

That was an interesting thing to say to him considering how she’d treated him the first time they met. Altair sighed. “So what exactly do you need me to do? If I agree to this, what are you looking for?”

“I need us to be photographed enjoying our time together. We’ll need to attend events together. You’ll need to acknowledge me as your girlfriend. We will not have to do much, the media will fill in the gaps that we leave.” She made a motion with her hands. “Perhaps you can come visit me when I’m filming my newest movie. Perhaps I can fly back here and stay with you over a weekend. We only need to be seen with one another and put the idea into their minds. People will fill in the gaps.”

Altair nodded. Then he sighed and rubbed his hands through his hair. “What about Sass?”

“I will say that you are friends and I am not challenged. I could be jealous of your relationship in an understanding way. I will not speak badly of Sass.” Maria made it sound so reasonable. “I won’t allow others to do it while I am there either. If that’s what you’re getting at?”

“What about sex?”

Maria laughed. “Don’t get caught. If you get caught, I’ll have to deal with the controversy of how I dated an unfaithful man for the rest of my life.”

Altair shrugged. “I’ll think about it.”

“I have to leave tomorrow. I’ll be in New York again in two weeks. Call me if you decide to do this and we’ll arrange a public reunion somewhere with cameras.” She moved to pick up her dishes but hesitated with her hands around the curve of the plate. “I do understand what I’m asking is a lot. I would be very grateful if you would do this, even if only for a few months.”

“If I do this, we’re over when I say. You move on without trashing my name. I decide how we break up.” It seemed like a stupid thing to barter over. But Maria was amused by him enough to smile again before she nodded and picked up the dishes to carry them to the sink. 

\--

Son-of-no-one: RT “Salty_Shipper: @son-of-no-one: who is this @horse person?” (20m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @salty_shipper, I’m not as high an authority on Sass’ life as she is on mine but from context clues I would say @horse is an artist and a friend of @sass-badger’s (20m ago)

Horse, @son-of-no-one, I heard you were a genius but I had never seen proof! (18m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @horse, thanks. (14m ago)

Kadar coughed because the alternative was hysterical laughter. He had read the exchange while he was looking for something to put on up on the Sett (a task that grew more tiresome by the day) when he discovered them. Leonardo was looking smug-as-fuck in the living room with his shirt off and his hair pulled back while he worked on assembling some prototype or another. He had a spread of books and blueprints to the side of his body and his tongue between his teeth while he worked. “Malik is going to be so pissed at you,” Kadar said from the kitchen table.

Leonardo turned his head only long enough for his smile to shift from smug to sly-and-pleased. He straightened up and wiped his fingers across his thigh. “Why would he be?”

“Look,” Kadar said, “you’re new to this so you might not know. Malik’s in love with this guy. Just be aware of that before you go poking him with things.”

Then there was a moment of silence as Leonardo digested the notion of it. He opened his mouth and closed it again and then sighed. “How can you love someone you have never seen? How can you love someone you cannot touch? Your brother is constructing a fantasy out of words.”

“And pictures,” Kadar said. “And videos. And boxes of chocolates and custom made honey badger plush toys that smell like rich dickheads.”

“The honeymoon will end, Kadar.” Leonardo said this with absolute certainty. “This will end in disaster.”

Well that was an optimistic view of the situation. Kadar sighed rather than fight him over the theoretical end of the long, drawn-out emotionally-stunted courtship between his brother and Altair. Instead he turned back to the computer to go searching for something to put on the blog again. A thought occurred to him (so briefly it was almost not recognizable as an idea) that Leonardo must have been _jealous_ and that notion left him with an unsettled feeling.

\--

Sass-Badger: RT: “@Sunrish, why would you let @horse talk to @son-of-no-one like that?” I assume it has something to do with both of them being adults and neither of them being obligated to listen to me. (21m ago)

Altair drove Edward to the airport and Federico left to pick up his wife. Lucy was back in the city at work and Claudia had gone shopping (or something along those lines). Desmond did not go looking for Ezio but found him (nonetheless) out in the cemetery, standing across from Grandmother’s grave looking repentant and confused about how he’d come to be there. He barely looked up to acknowledge Desmond before returning to stare at the grave the flowers laid up against the headstone.

“I think she’d be angry we’ve used her home like this,” Ezio said. Then he sighed. “You seem well, Desmond. I did not expect you to stay as long as you have. I thought it would be too difficult.”

“I’m good,” Desmond assured him. He hadn’t spent all of his time tagging along with the idiots. He’d gone and hid with Edward in the doghouse a day or two and he’d stayed away from Federico when it seemed like he was most likely to start ranting about something stupid. He had left many times to get Lucy and been lazy about returning. “You don’t seem good.”

Ezio grimaced at the ground but he was smiling when he looked up again. “I am fine, cousin. I just need to get away. Perhaps I can convince Altair to tour the many wonders of Europe with me again.”

“By many wonders you mean ‘many vaginas’?”

Ezio elbowed him in the ribs with a laugh but then nodded. “I mean something very similar, yes.” 

Desmond laughed and they stood there in a half-awkward kind of companionship. It was only because it should be said (and not because it must be) that Desmond bothered to mention, “I don’t think he’s as interested in available sex partners as he was before.”

“What do you think of this person? This Sass person? I thought it was a momentary affair. I thought she would quit or he would lose interest.” Ezio looked genuinely puzzled by it. “It has been years. He is more interested in Sass now than when this started.”

“I think he’ll win in the end. I think he won’t quit until he meets Sass in person and that’ll either lead to them never separating again or he’ll find something he doesn’t like and they’ll never speak again. Either way, he’s going to get what he wants. He always does.”

Ezio laughed. “Sass is probably a man. A hairy older man with a bent back that smells like bad cheese.” That thought perked him up for a moment before he caught sight of Desmond’s frown and rolled his eyes. “I will not taunt the baby. I will just amuse myself.” 

“Fine. Quietly,” Desmond said.

\--

horse: I’ve gone from 3 followers to a few hundred in the matter of two days. I can’t help but feel it’s because my art is amazing (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @horse, that must be it. I can’t think of any other reason to follow you. (3h ago)

Coffee4College: oh for fucks sake, @son-of-no-one, @horse, what is your problem? (3h ago)

Horse: @coffee4college, proximity. (2h ago)

Malik was not _angry_. Malik was _furious_. He’d fallen asleep (as he often did in the afternoon) and woke up a few hours later to absolutely no new messages in his E-mail but a short, sweet set of exchanged taunts on the internet feed. Leonardo was out in the kitchen looking very pleased with himself while he cleaned up one of his sketches. His hair was half up and half down and his phone was sitting right there for the taking.

“Stop,” Malik shouted at him before he could think through an appropriate response to have. He slid his own phone into his back pocket and picked up Leonardo’s. (Which he couldn’t possibly keep away from the man who was both physically larger and stronger than him. As well as more flexible and faster at the moment.) “I don’t even know why it matters to you or why you’ve decided that this is the best course of action but stop!”

Leonardo turned in his seat but didn’t get up to grab his phone. He was smiling (like everything was perfectly wonderful) with one of his eyebrows cocked up. “It is curious to me that it matters as much to you as it does. You have been using me to relieve your sexual frustration for months. Does he know that?”

Malik didn’t answer.

The evil glint in Leonardo’s eyes got a little brighter as he realized the obvious conclusion. “That’s interesting. Do you know about his partners as well?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “But they don’t get rubbed in my face. Stop being an asshole.”

“How large is his penis?” Leonardo asked. The question was so casual and unrelated that Malik threw the phone at his head and it made contact with the left side of his forehead hard enough the back panel that concealed the battery popped off. Leonardo squawked in pain before grabbing his head. “Was that necessary?”

“Is anything you’re doing necessary?” Malik demanded. “Anything? Any of it? Out of all of the people that might have found out, I _expected_ you would be the _most mature_ option.”

Leonardo scoffed as he stooped down to pick up his phone (in pieces) off the floor. He set it on the table and rubbed the red mark on his forehead with his thumb. “I am being mature. If I were being immature I would have told him how many times I’ve seen you naked or how you’re sleeping in my bed.”

“Why?” Malik asked.

“Because despite my best efforts, I remain fallible and human. I dislike the idea that this person has—” He stopped and let out a breath before saying. “I like knowing that you are here for me when I want you. I like knowing that I owe you nothing but friendship. I very much don’t like that one day you might not be available to me. Which has not been a concern before as you have never shown even the slightest inclination toward romantic tendencies.”

Well that was not at all what Malik was expecting. “Please stop,” he said. “It’s not fair. I told him that we can’t meet. I’ve taunted him with you before. Don’t make it worse.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Leonardo said. But that didn’t seem like a promise at all. Then he said, “I want to draw you.”

“Fuck you,” Malik said before he turned around and left again. “Where’s Kadar?” was shouted back over his shoulder.

“He went out with Sofia,” Leonardo shouted from the dining room.

\--

BestofThree: RT: “@horse, that must be it. I can’t think of any other reason to follow you.” While I realize this was not your point, the @horse’s art is amazing (4m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @bestofthree, shame about the personality though. (1m ago)

It wasn’t that Desmond was offended but he was vaguely humbled to have Lucy stop kissing him just to look at her phone when the tone alerted her to a new message. She was almost-naked (her skirt had yet to be removed) and he was entirely naked and they were five seconds away from sex but she pushed her hand against his chest to reach her phone. Then she sat there with the heat of her body soaking into his like a promise frowning about what she was reading.

“Ugh,” she said. “First Maria and now this horse person. Why the fuck are these people trying to mess with true love?” She dropped her phone to the side and looked at him as if he would have an actual answer for her at this _precise_ moment. When he failed to reply right away she cocked her eyebrows up and motioned with her hand that he should answer more quickly.

“Those assholes,” Desmond said.

Lucy rolled her eyes. Then she leaned back down to be laying against him and wiggled her arms under his back so she could run her cool fingers down the nape of his neck. “What were we doing?”

“You were trying to seduce me into agreeing to go visit your parents,” he said. “They called, they wanted to meet me since you were beating up full grown men on TV.”

“Right,” Lucy said. She kissed him again and hummed encouragingly whenever his hands slid up her thighs to the warm space beneath her skirt. Her skin was amazing under his hands. He could have spent a few hours exploring it but she was impatient with a shift of her body and one of her hands pushing his down between her thighs where she was hot-and-wet. “So are we going to see my parents?”

Desmond was trying to find enough space to think around the immediacy of wanting. He nodded and she kissed him like a welcome reward. “But can we never talk about your parents while we’re having sex again?” Desmond asked. 

“Maybe,” Lucy assured him. “I’ve missed your dick, though. Do you want to talk about that? Any of your cousins have Viagra because I could ride this,” her hand circled around his dick and squeezed as she smiled oh-so-sweetly against his cheek. “All day.”

“Oh fuck,” Desmond whispered. He pushed his elbows against the bed and rolled them over so she was spread out under him with a wild giggle and a splash of sunny-blonde-hair spread out across the pillows. It was her quick hands guiding his dick into place and his impatient hips. “You’re amazing,” he said. 

Lucy pulled him down with her fingers on his face and her legs around his back. 

\--

horse: @son-of-no-one, I apologize. I have been having fun at your expense. (3m ago)

Kadar had reached the point at which he simply could not be bothered to care anymore. He picked up the laptop—half finished post for the Sett opened on the browser—carried it through the small, cramped, obnoxiously quiet apartment and dropped it without ceremony onto his brother. Malik had been halfway through his afternoon snooze when the computer hit his right thigh and slid onto the rumpled blankets at his side. The sudden strike jolted him upright with a wild look of confusion on his face. “I’m done,” Kadar announced. “Take back your obsession because I really can’t do it anymore. I don’t care! I don’t give a shit if he’s slept with half the world or if he enslaves children or if he buys unrecyclable paper that manufactured by companies destroying the rain forest! I don’t. I don’t care anymore.”

Malik blinked at him a few times, looked down at the computer and then back up at him. “What?” he said.

“I’m done. I was going to keep doing it until we went home in two weeks but I can’t. I’m done. I’m done with being here. I’m done with the Sett, I’m done pretending to care. I’m done asking for pictures and dealing with the comments and being _here_. Maybe you can deal with having only two friends and staying inside all day doing nothing but talking to people on the internet but _I like_ my friends and they don’t even talk to me anymore!”

Some of that might have had nothing to do with Malik. Most of it didn’t. Most of it had to do with his friends that slowly stopped sending him messages or calling him because it was summer and he wasn’t around to do anything with. He wasn’t around to be invited over to watch movies or talk about how having a job sucked or what they were going to do for senior year and he missed junior prom (that was fine, he wouldn’t have had a date anyway). He wasn’t there to see that girl he’d dated that one time end up pregnant (which was viciously satisfying in a sad way).

Malik rubbed his face and wiggled around so he was sitting up with his back against the wall at the head of the bed. “Ok,” he said. “Uh—tell me what you’ve done with the Sett?”

“You haven’t even been reading it!” Kadar shouted at him.

“Well, sometimes?” Malik said. He did look ashamed of himself. “I’m sorry about your friends.”

“You’re stupid,” Kadar said. “Fine. I’ll finish this post and give you the outline of what I’ve done. Then you’re on your own.”

“Ok,” Malik said like he wasn’t even sure it was the right answer. “You don’t have—”

But Kadar took the computer back and left Malik confused and half-awake on the bed to go back out to the living room and finish writing the stupid post he didn’t want to write at all. 

\--

> ### Chat While You Play!
> 
> Son-of-no-one: Sorry I’m late. I was holding a baby  
> Sass: A real baby?  
> Son-of-no-one: Vincenzio. He fell asleep while I was holding him and I couldn’t figure out how to put him down.  
> Son-of-no-one: why would I hold a fake baby?  
> Sass: why would you hold a real one?  
> Sass: I didn’t know your cousin was there. Since you haven’t been talking to me.  
> Son-of-no-one: is horse your friend you read fat classics and suck dick with?  
> Sass: yes. Or I did. Now he just follows me around asking to draw me and I sleep in his bed while he sleeps on the floor.  
> Son-of-no-one: because he doesn’t want to or because you don’t feel like?  
> Sass: have sex?  
> Sass: probably a combination. I haven’t felt like it for a long time, I haven’t even felt the inclination toward sex. He has other people to have sex with  
> Son-of-no-one: I have never experienced a day in my life where I didn’t want to have sex. You know since it became relevant.   
> Sass: I spent the majority of my pubescent years punishing myself for thinking about sex. I convinced myself that I didn’t want it and thought that was the same as not wanting it. Now that I don’t feel even up for the challenge of trying to want it, I see I was very wrong.  
> Son-of-no-one: I was a late bloomer. My cousins teased me about not caring about girls when I moved out with them. They used to try to teach me how to pick up girls. Ezio made sure to tell me that the most important thing about sex is making sure the other person has an orgasm. He told me that a lot.  
> Sass: Is there anyone in your family that isn’t heterosexual? It seems statistically impossible.  
> Son-of-no-one: there’s an Auditore uncle that’s gay but other than knowing he exists, I know nothing about him. I don’t know if that’s a by choice situation or if they pushed him out. The rest—unless Claudia turns out to be a lesbian, they are all straight.  
> Sass: That amazes me.  
> Son-of-no-one: well how many gay people are in your family?  
> Sass: just one.  
> Son-of-no-one: is it your brother?  
> Sass: if it were, it wouldn’t be my place to say if he hasn’t.   
> Son-of-no-one: fair enough. Were we going to play Scrabble?  
> Sass: it’s your turn.  
> Son-of-no-one: but your friend, horse, if you wanted to have sex again he would?  
> Sass: I don’t understand why you’re asking this.  
> Son-of-no-one: because it bugs me that you feel like simply because of an accident and this alteration to your appearance that your ability to have sex or be considered attractive is gone forever. You said he asks to draw you, that seems like something that would be intimate.   
> Son-of-no-one: I don’t know.  
> Son-of-no-one: I don’t want you thinking less or yourself.  
> Sass: You are ridiculous. I don’t know if he would. It’s not a priority. Scrabble?  
> Son-of-no-one: fine. But you should let him draw you. It might change how you think of yourself?  
> Sass: say one more word about him and I’ll leave and put him on this game. He’s a genius too.  
> Son-of-no-one: fine.

Altair hadn’t intended to walk into Federico and Cristina kissing but he rounded a corner on his way to the kitchen and stopped short in a convenient shadow. Federico wasn’t a huge guy (probably only as tall as his brother) and Cristina wasn’t tiny but the way he held onto her while they kissed exaggerated the difference in their sizes. She kissed him with her back to the wall and her eyes closed, the wet sound of their mouths loud and persistent. It was her elbow that hit the wall and his hand, his feet shuffled forward and she made a half-protesting, half-agreeable noise when his hand moved from her neck downward. Altair left before he accidentally saw more than he wanted. 

The other route to the kitchen involved travelling twice as far. He had to go back up and around and down again before he could get to the hallway that led to the kitchen. He only made it halfway there when he ran into Ezio, shirtless and half-asleep, on his way to the kitchen.

“Hey,” Altair said.

Ezio hummed an aggravated greeting in return.

“I need to ask you something,” Altair said. He didn’t have anything to ask Ezio at all. And his need to ask something didn’t seem to be stopping Ezio from leaving. In fact, Ezio waved a hand at him and kept walking like he didn’t even care. Which mean he’d be walking face-first into his brother and sister-in-law. Altair rolled his eyes at the unnecessary difficulty of stopping him. “Have you ever fucked a guy?” Altair asked.

As far as questions to make his cousin stop in his tracks, it was probably over-zealous. Ezio turned around and stared at him. Then put both hands on his face and then dropped them again. “No,” he said. “Have you?”

(Yes.) “Would you?” Altair asked. “I mean, if you found someone you were attracted to and—”

“Why are you asking?”

Because I don’t want you to go down that back staircase and walk in on your brother having sex with his wife (the woman you loved) because it would end so poorly. “Sass and I have been talking about why I’m homophobic.” That was true. “She asked me if I was attracted to men.”

“You denied it.” That wasn’t even a question. Ezio came back over with the air of a big-brother type that was to bestow worthwhile advice. His arm came up to hook around Altair’s shoulders (and that dragged him downward) before he put a hand against Altair’s chest and said, “Life is too short to be so concerned with the expectations of others. If I found a man attractive and I was inclined, I would have sex with him. I do not know why this frightens you so much.”

“Would you let a guy fuck you?” Altair asked. They were close enough that the question seemed inappropriately close. The quick flinch of Ezio’s face denied such a thing but it smoothed out and he nodded his head with full authority.

“If you found a man attractive, would you have sex with him?”

No. Altair said, “I don’t find men attractive. It’s not relevant to me.” And this made Ezio hang his head. “Want to go get pizza with me?”

“It’s not even morning yet,” Ezio said. 

“Well then come make me a pizza,” Altair said. “A real Italian pizza. So I don’t have to listen to your bitching about imitation pizzas.” He motioned them down the stairs in the front and Ezio went with him all the while having no idea he’d been redirected.

\--

son-of-no-one: finally home again I forgot what my condo looked like (29m ago)

Malik thought about it for a week. Leonardo’s focus shifted from taunting Altair to packing up the apartment for the move. Most of his belongings were being shipped back to his Mother’s house. The stuff that wasn’t chosen to be saved would go to the dumpster. For the relatively short amount of time Leonardo had lived in the apartment, it was overburdened with things that needed to be packed. And what needed to be packed had to be packed securely and safely and in a certain order.

Kadar had packed everything he brought and what he’d acquired since he got there and sat it by the door with a resolute excitement to leave. For the sake of sparing everyone the awkward fallout, Malik waited until his baby brother was gone before he cornered Leonardo in the bedroom. 

“If you still want to draw me, you can,” Malik said. The fact that he felt like there was nothing about his own body worth immortalizing on paper aside, there was something like common sense in Altair’s suggestion that he just allow it. It was possible (probable, even) that Leonardo still found him attractive. It was possible his feelings about how misshapen and uneven his body was weren’t a reflection of the truth. 

Leonardo turned around from where he’d been crouching and stuffing his clothes into a cardboard box he’d picked up from the grocery store. He sat down and crossed his legs in front of his body. “I do want to.” Then nothing. He didn’t move to immediately follow through. He didn’t seem interested at all. 

Malik was going to ask when he was thinking about doing it but Leonardo slid up to his feet and said, ‘let me get my things’ before leaving the room and returning a few moments later with his sketch pad and his bag of pencils. He sat with his back against the floor and motioned at Malik. 

“However you’re comfortable.”

“You want me dressed or undressed?”

“Well, I always prefer you naked,” Leonardo said, and then, “however you’re comfortable.” 

Malik hesitated before he pulled his shirt off. He left his pants on, made sure the belt was straight through the loops and took half-step closer to the wall. He put his elbow against it and rested his face against the crook of his arm. “Probably should have put music on.”

“I won’t make you stand there very long.” Leonardo moved back and forth on the ground before he found the angle he liked the best and then he went completely silent. The only sound was the loud, trapped sound of Malik’s breathing and the quiet scratch of the pencils against the sketch pad. The thud of his heart was a varying beat of anxiety and fear that even his bold and fearless pretense of not caring couldn’t calm. 

Malik wanted to believe it didn’t matter to him what Leonardo drew or what he thought. He needed it to be true. He needed to believe that regardless of what he saw in the drawing that Leonardo made of him, nothing would change. He kept repeating it to himself, working out the scenarios and his reactions. Convincing himself that he would be civil and accepting regardless.

He didn’t hear the exact moment Leonardo set down the sketch pad. He didn’t hear the shuffle of knees across the floor but felt Leonardo’s warm-hands fold around his right flank and a tangle of his right fingers tugging at Malik’s belt to pull him around and nudge him back flat to the wall. “I do not know if you are ready to hear it, Malik but you are as beautiful, as perfect, as captivating and as arousing to me _now_ as you have been since the first moment I pulled your clothes off. Your body is not a horror but a testament to the endurance and strength that makes you intoxicating to me. I have been furious with jealousy that some other, stupid _worthless_ boy has all of your attention while I’ve been making do with your body. It is not a bad compromise. It is the one I wanted.” His hands slid up Malik’s chest, his fingertips pressed tight to his skin as they dragged down, easing up only around the surgical site and it’s still obvious scar before tightening around his hips again. His face was sincere and hopeful as he looked up at Malik. “Any man that would not want you is not worthy.”

Malik put his hand over top of Leonardo’s when it started travelling lower and held it in place. “Have you seen him? _He_ is perfect.”

“Ezio is perfect,” Leonardo agreed. 

Malik laughed. Leonardo’s hands were tightening around his hips as he leaned forward and rested his chin against Malik’s belly. He looked so very hopeful. 

“Please let me worship your body before you take the choice away forever? It doesn’t have to be today. Whenever you are ready, before your romantic leanings take you too much farther way.”

“I can’t promise,” Malik said. He might have said more but Leonardo kissed his belly above the belt buckle and then sat back so he wasn’t touching him. The distance was an immediate regret and Leonardo must have sensed it because he was back up on his knees and then his feet. “My romantic leanings aren’t taking me anywhere. He thinks I’m a woman.”

Leonardo smiled. “Every relationship has its problems. Even if this one doesn’t work out, you’ve gotten close enough that you’ll go looking for more of the same. I’ve seen it.” Then he kissed Malik on the cheek and stayed close a half-breath longer before stepping away to give him back all his space. “Your brother should be back soon.”

“Yeah,” Malik said. “He should be.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
> TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> So Maria Thorpe, as it turns out, is a lesbian. (Please don’t tell anyone.) This is only relevant because this thing she’s been doing where she attacks me with lusty asides has been part of an elaborate ruse. She wants me to pretend to be her boyfriend because she doesn’t want to be known as ‘the lesbian actress’. She asked me a couple of weeks ago and I told her that I’d have to think about it.
> 
> I don’t even like her. But, I’m going to do it. At least for a few months. I just want you to know that regardless of what you see in the tabloids or online that she had no interest in me and I have no interest in her. 

Maria had told him she wouldn’t be back in town for two weeks but she showed up at the park where he was frequently photographed pre-and-post run with Lucy or Desmond. She was wearing a sporty set of work-out clothes that hugged all of her curves and did nothing at all to make the look of condescending semi-disapproval less severe. “Hello lover,” she said.

“Hey,” he said. 

Maria moved closer to him, caught him by the hands and lifted herself up on her tip-toes to kiss him. It was the shortest little kiss of all time, barely a touch of lips before it was nothing. She hummed a noise low in her throat and said, “put your arms around my back.”

He looped his arms around her. “After lunch, maybe you should teach me how you want me to kiss and hold you so I have a clear idea.” He smiled at her because it was what he’d been taught and she smiled back. “Are you going to run with me?”

“Yes,” Maria said. “And I will.” Since she was there, she said, “thank you.” Then she slid out of his grasp and motioned him toward the trail he most often ran. “Maybe next time you can invite your cousin?”

“Sure,” Altair said. “Except then Lucy would come and she hates you.”

Maria snorted. “I am not afraid of Lucy.” She followed his pace and they lapsed into silence as they jogged.

\--

son-of-no-one: before I get one more message from an angry person with an amusing screenname: 1. I can date whoever I want, 2. Watch your mouth, (21m ago)

Son-of-no-one: Maria is not a slut, a whore or a bitch and 3. I don’t know what Saltair is but @sass-badger and I are still friends. (20m ago)

Sass-Badger: RT: ‘GuyFawkes23: ‘Saltair’ is a portmanteau of the names Sass and Altair, I believe it is meant to be your couple or ‘pairing’ name.’ what the hell is a pairing name? (19m ago)

GuyFawkes23: @sass-badger, it means that anonymous persons on the internet are so invested in your relationship with @son-of-no-one they have written stories about it. (18m ago)

Sofia was laughing so hard that she couldn’t stack the books she was supposed to be putting into the box by the door. What had started with Kadar doing a dramatic reading of the angry responses Altair had gotten for the photograph of him kissing Maria had devolved rapidly. “What,” Sofia wheezed, “what are they writing about you? They don’t even know who you are!”

“That’s not the important part,” Malik said from the couch. He was trying to search ‘Saltair’ and ‘fiction’ in an attempt to find whatever the hell these people were writing about him. 

“I imagine Sass would be a short girl with prominent hips and small breasts,” Leonardo said. “Isn’t that the ‘sarcastic girl’ look? Dark hair and it would be short. I could probably draw you a sketch.”

“I don’t want a sketch,” Malik said. 

Kadar squealed a noise that interrupted them. “Oh shit! Altair responded.” He held his phone up in front of him and cleared his throat. His voice was nothing at all like Altair’s but he did his best to make it similar. “It says, at sass-badger, looks like we found our next joint reading assignment. Then he has this link. I can’t believe he went looking for stories about you.”

“What the hell do they even call you?” Sofia asked. (She had come over to help pack and to save time and trouble, Malik had simply told her that he was in a long-distance semi-relationship with Altair. She had laughed so hard she’d started crying before calming down enough to ask if he’d ever slept with Altair and if Malik could introduce her to Ezio.) “Sass? That is not a name.”

“I’m not getting involved,” Malik said. “I’m not. I’m not interested.” 

Leonardo scoffed. “Nobody believes you.”

Kadar jumped off the footstool he’d been standing on and came over to throw himself onto the couch next to Malik. He took the laptop right out of his lap. “You’re not interested, I am.” Then he went looking for Altair’s twitter to find the link and open it. “I’ll summarize. You go pack dishes or something.” He shooed his hand and Malik glared at him but (since he protested with disinterest) he got up and walked away. “It’s called ‘A Meeting in the Park’ and the summary says, ‘Altair has been dying to see Sass since the first time she told him off but now he’s really dying and this might be his only chance to see her. Will she show?’”

“No,” Leonardo and Sofia said simultaneously.

“I can hear you!” Malik shouted from the kitchen. “What’s he dying of?”

“Does that make a difference about whether you’ll go see him?” Leonardo asked. 

“Well, if I’m going to see him he better be really dying.” Malik picked up the box off the floor and dropped it on the counter. The cabinets were all open and the dishes were stacked haphazardly on the bottom shelves. There was a pile of newspaper on the stove to be used to wrap the dishes. He took a minute to work out how to go about the process with one only one hand (something that annoyed him, having to think things through before he did them) before he started.

“Looks like cancer?” Kadar answered a moment later. “He’s lost weight, is pale and is wearing a beanie in summer.” Then he laughed. “You’re white! You’re a white girl with glasses!” Kadar was laughing too hard to be understood and the shuffle of motion ended with both Sofia and Leonardo leaning over the laptop to read the description of some fictional girl named Sass. “I can’t breathe,” Kadar wheezed. 

Sofia said, “you’re ‘smartly dressed’ and wear suspenders. You have dark hair in a careless pony tail and you carry around your favorite book in your purse. Oh, you’re crying! That’s so sweet.”

Malik chose to ignore them because the alternative was trying to muscle his way back to his own computer.


	44. Chapter 44

> ### July 1, 2008: Off Topic Tuesday (a one time-feature)
> 
> It has been brought to my attention that stories about myself and Altair exist on the internet. It has also been mentioned that Altair is dating Maria Thorpe (to spare yourselves the unnecessarily dramatic reaction those latter links lead to pictures of Altair holding hands and kissing his _real_ girlfriend). I have been allowing these comments and e-mails to continue because it simply isn’t an issue that matters very much to me. However, as I can no longer sort through the comments to find something _not_ relevant to this abrupt and apparently _dire_ problem, allow me to address it.
> 
> I will do so by advising you to follow these three logical steps:  
>  1\. Please attempt to remember that Altair is a grown man and has the ability to make reasonable choices about his own happiness. My goal in keeping this blog has never been about denying him joy but about reminding him that his own happiness is not more important than basic levels of human decency. There is nothing indecent in dating Maria Thorpe.  
>  2\. Please remember that Maria Thorpe is a real person. She is not a whore. She is not a slut. She is not a villain. She does not deserve the things that are being said about her and anyone that makes a derogatory comment about her on this blog will be immediately banned. I’ve said it before and I will say it again: _**There is absolutely no excuse for hate**_.  
>  3\. Do not send me anymore links to fanfiction about myself and Altair. Do not disregard this because you feel like you have found the best one. Do not ignore this because you have an especially witty comment to make about one you feel is poorly written. Do not feel as if I do not mean _you_ specifically because you’ve found THE MOST ACCURATE of all stories ever. I promise you that I am aware the fanfiction exists and that while I do not understand why someone would use their talent in this manner, I do not object to its existence. I am also not interested in mocking it. So please stop. 
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Off Topic, I: Stop Immediately, I: Altair I am actually speaking to you, W: Crude Language_  
> 

Kadar had requisitioned the backseat of Leonardo’s car for the trip home. He had it spread out with blankets and stacks of snacks to ‘help him survive the boredom’. After Malik lectured (extensively) he agreed to buy his summer reading books and was reading one of them with a pout on his face less than ten-miles-out on a seventeen hour trip. Malik was sitting in the front seat with the window rolled down and his arm tucked behind the door (if only because Leonardo had stopped the car entirely to stare at him in disbelief the one time he let his right arm hang out the window).

“So,” Leonardo said once they made it to the interstate and the radio was a low buzz of continuous noise indistinguishable from the road sounds. “Explain to me how you slept with Altair in the first place? I’m not wrong in thinking he’s the man that ruined you? But how did you even meet him?”

“He came to my prom,” Malik said. “The whole school knew that he was coming with this girl that was the younger sister of one of his friends. I have no idea how the whole thing got set up but he showed up with this girl and she abandoned him as soon as they got there.”

“Brittany Davis had a bet saying that she was going to fuck him before midnight,” Kadar said. “I remember having to listen to her stupid friends talking about how they needed to go buy different prom dresses and how Altair must be used to so much luxury and how they were going to shave _everywhere_.”

Leonardo laughed. Malik rolled his eyes again, “are you serious?” He half turned in the seat to look at Kadar and saw his brother nod before huffing a sigh again and looking forward. “I was at prom because Mom said it was an important social milestone and I’d be sad to have missed it. And to make sure nobody spiked the punch. Someone did spike the punch, I don’t remember when. I remember arguing about proms and other events with Altair because he kept hanging out around the punch trying to avoid being attacked by the horny teenager girls. Then we left because he wanted pizza and that ended in a hotel room.”

“How?” Leonardo asked. “How did this man convince you to leave the prom in the first place? How did you convince him to overcome his deep-seated homophobia long enough to even ask you to a hotel room?”

“I don’t know,” Malik said.

“What kind of question is that?” Kadar demanded. He grabbed the back of Malik’s seat and pulled himself up so he could look at Leonardo clearly. “How can you even ask that? You—you knew him for like six seconds before you asked him to have sex with you? If _anyone_ in the world should understand I feel like it would be you.”

“Except I am happily homosexual,” Leonardo said. Then he glanced sideways a half-second and looked forward again. “I see your point. Clearly primal attraction is a more significant motivator than fear and prejudice.” 

Malik rolled his eyes again. “That’s the whole story. I don’t remember anything else.”

“Who topped?” Leonardo asked. 

Kadar flopped back into the back seat. “I like how you ask this question like Malik ever tops.”

“Fuck you,” Malik said. He twisted around in the seat again in time to see the smug smile on Kadar’s face. “I do so.”

“Really?” Leonardo asked. (He really did not have to make it sound so unbelievable either.) “Who?”

Kadar started laughing and the sound was so loud that nobody could have heard Malik’s answer even if he had bothered to try to make one. Instead he ignored them until the sound lessened. Leonardo was pink all under his freckles while he watched the road but the expectation of a response lingered in the way he darted his eyes to the side to look at Malik.

“Assume anyone I’ve had sex with besides you,” Malik answered.

“That seems arbitrary,” Leonardo said. “What’s the logic? Are they not good enough to top you?”

“No,” Malik said. “Handsome but stupid. That’s the sort of guy I’m interested in having casual single-use sex with. Could we talk about something else now?” 

“Yeah, but first,” Kadar said from the back seat. “Do you ask for IQ scores before your take your clothes off? I just need to know how you know which guys are smart enough to have the honor, here.”

Leonardo laughed, “he didn’t ask for mine. I dazzled him with my intellect over lunch, however. One assumes that Altair proved that he was more than a semi-attractive moron over pizza and spiked punch.” 

Malik pointedly picked up the book he had brought along to read and after a few protests from the other occupants of the car, the conversation died.

\--

>   
>  **Interviewer:** so you’ve got a new romance. Just tell us—anything. How did you meet? How long have you been seeing one another now?
> 
> **Maria:** I’ve known the family for several years. I met Maria Auditore through a mutual friend and I just thought she was the loveliest woman. I have spent time with her family since I met but I did not meet Altair until much more recently. We just started dating last month, it’s very new.
> 
> **Interviewer** : How is he different in—uh—personal interactions than the public ones we’ve seen. I don’t’ feel like I’m the only one that just doesn’t know what to think of him. One moment he is a hero and the next he is—
> 
> **Maria:** an insensitive prick? [Laugh.] I think, on a personal level is much more thoughtful than he appears to the public. When I first felt like, maybe I should see if this guy is interested, I was reluctant because of his reputation. I didn’t want to be involved with some man I could not trust. I didn’t want to pursue a relationship only to find he is as shallow as the way he presents himself.
> 
> **Interviewer** : So you were the one that made the first move, as it were?
> 
> **Maria** : Ah, yes. A few of them before they were noticed.

Altair was in London (for the weekend) because Maria asked him to come see her again before she had to go ‘on location’ somewhere in Germany. Originally her plan had for him to visit her while she was filming so there would be plenty of witnesses for their romance. She changed her mind without his input on the matter and decided illicit weekend meet-ups were better and less likely to be distracting while she was busy. He threw the magazine he’d been reading onto the coffee table. “Why do you get to make the first move?” Altair asked. His voice was loud enough to be heard around the corner where Maria was getting dressed to go out with him. He had already finished putting on the clothes she picked out for him to wear. (It was important he look worthy of being seen with her.) 

“Because,” Maria shouted back, “all of your moves have a twelve hour expiration on them.” 

“Have we had sex yet?”

Maria’s scoff echoed up the hall in the brief seconds before she appeared in his line of sight. She was a beautiful woman (sure enough) with a body that showed the clear pride she took in her appearance. Her skin was delicate and glowing. Her face highlighted by a masterful application of make-up. But her hand was on her hip and her expression was condescending. (Times like this, Altair wondered how he came to align himself with all these women that thought so little of him.) “Yes, Altair. We have been dating for a month. I spent two weeks in a house with you. There is video of you untying my bikini top while I straddle your lap. We have had sex.”

“Did you enjoy it?” Altair asked. Before the look of disbelief could intensify on her face he said, “look you get asked how emotionally available I am and I’m going to get asked how good you are in bed.”

“Fine,” Maria said. “Don’t say anything explicit but make all the insinuations that I’m happily athletic in bed. How big is your dick, really. Like this big?” She put her hands up to indicate length and he cocked up an eyebrow at her poor ability to estimate. Then he put his hands on her wrists and pulled her hands apart a little farther. “No shit,” she said. “I have to see that. I’m not spreading lies for you benefit.”

“Next time I’m hard, I’ll call you in to measure,” he said. “Are we going to dinner?”

“Yes. Remember not to smile too much, your face isn’t made for smiling. Touch me in a familiar way but not on my ass.” Then she dusted off his shirt front and looked momentarily sad before her smile slid back across her face. “Well, let’s go do this.”

\--

horse: one should never underestimate the refreshing power of a well-earned shower (10m ago)

They had given up after seven hours of driving. The sun hadn’t gone down (not even close) but Leonardo had announced (without ceremony) that he was simply through driving that day. They found a town off the interstate with a reliable looking hotel that didn’t find it too weird that they were three guys asking for two beds in a single room. The place was clean and there was an opportunistic restaurant next door. The options were largely Italian but food-was-food and Malik was too happy to be stationary again to care that everything on the menu was drowning in marinara.

Kadar fell asleep as soon as he laid on the bed. He was too tall and too broad now to be adorable. (And when had that happened, really. When had Malik’s baby brother gained the ability to grow stubble, outgrown his cartoon briefs and suddenly be too large to be considered a kid anymore?) Still, he managed to look inoffensively innocent curled up on the bed with a book pressed to his chest and his hair in a mess flopping around his face. 

“I’m taking a shower,” Malik said. He needed to wash away the grime of travel. It had been an easy trip so far with minimal discomfort at the constant jostling of the interstate. The bathroom was brightly lit and perfectly serviceable. The shower was decently warm and the spray was strong enough to have a massaging effect on his back. He stood under the water for a few minutes thinking about what the hell he was going to do when he got home again. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a curious knock on the door and Leonardo saying, “can I get in there too? I’m falling asleep but I smell like a zoo.” He sounded exhausted enough that Malik pulled back the curtain to look at him. Leonardo was yawning as he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. It was either the most convincing play-acting or he was genuinely tired. “I’ll wash your hair, you still like that right?”

Malik nodded and Leonardo stripped out of his clothes to climb in the shower with him. He was tall enough he blocked the spray of the water. He stood there with his eyes closed and his skin going pink from the heat of the water. His shoulders always turned red with exertion and heat. The freckles standing out against the pink as he tipped his head and let the water run through his hair. His body hadn’t changed and it seemed strange (now that Malik was looking at him) that he thought it might have. 

“Hey,” Leonardo said. His eyes were only barely open, squinting at him through the spray of the water. There was a tilt of a smile on his face as his hands dropped from carding through his hair. One of his hands reached out in the space between them to touch him. It grazed across his collarbone and then pressed against his chest. “Can I kiss you?”

Malik looked at the hand against his skin, the contrast between Leonardo’s paler skin and his, and then looked up at him again. His tongue ran across his lips and nodded. When Leonardo moved closer, his hand slid to the left and Malik put a palm against his chest to stop him. He was still working out what to say when Leonardo just dropped his hand away with a nod. 

The kiss, as far as kisses shared between them went, was remarkable only because it was devoid of the usual level of passion. Leonardo hadn’t made a habit out of kissing him like he wanted something more than a brief, reliably satisfying, sexual encounter. They had kissed for hours like idiots trying to outdo the other on how long they could tolerate the foreplay but it hadn’t ever been _absent_ desire. 

“Hey,” Malik said. He tipped his head back.

Leonardo murmured a noise that seemed like it was acknowledging his confusion. He put his arm over Malik’s shoulder and pulled their bodies together before he kissed him again. This was familiar—hungry and persistent. Playful and well-educated with the indecent close press of Leonardo’s long body against his. He could feel the hardening length of Leonardo’s dick against him and it was a quick thrill of the well-known-sort. He was Pavlov’s fucking dog trying to rest his hands on Leonardo’s hips so he could spread his own legs and tilt his hips. This dance was so well known his body didn’t even need his help to manage it. 

Save for how lopsided his grip was and how the sudden awareness of his absent left hand made him grimace. He leaned to the side to get away, stepped out of the shower and onto the scratchy mat he’d laid down. “I’ll wash my hair tomorrow,” he said. 

“Sure,” Leonardo said. He said nothing else as Malik left the bathroom or when he followed after a few moments later. 

\--

> **Lucy – Coffeeshop Girl**
> 
> Are your parents going to like Desmond?
> 
> They should. He’s a man.
> 
> Yes that he is
> 
> Personality isn’t as important as the presence of a penis?
> 
> Think about this, Altair.
> 
> He’s rich. He’s handsome. He’s decent.
> 
> Yes but you said hes a man
> 
> how many women have you brought home?
> 
> Just one.

Desmond had survived more terrifying ordeals than standing on the Stillman’s front porch (he was sure) but none of them came to mind in the span of time between Lucy discovering the door locked, knocking aggressively and the door opening. It was maybe ( _maybe_ ) five minutes of time yet it seemed to drag out for a few years.

In his head, Desmond could see his father (red in the face) hunched-back in despair over him, with one hand digging into Desmond’s left shoulder and his voice like a hot gust of wind reminding him how _useless_ he was. _Look at these fucking bills, boy_ , was William saying, _look at this house, look at how we have to live_ and Desmond gave up crying but he hadn’t figured out how to brace his back and tell his father to fuck off. So he stood there with his head ducked and his shoulders slumped while his dad was just saying, _you can’t do anything right, you’re like your mother! She couldn’t do anything right and you can’t do anything right—you can’t even clean up after yourself, you can’t even smile, look at these bills Desmond, look at these—_

“I don’t think I can do this,” Desmond hissed at Lucy over the sound of the lock turning. 

Her fingers were quick and warm between his. Her hair was loose on her shoulders and her expression was concerned-and-supportive with her body inching closer to his like shoring him up against weakness. “Yes you can,” she whispered. “They are going to love you.” 

When the door opened, there was a woman standing there with pretty blonde hair and Lucy’s face aged a few decades. She was wearing an apron with flour dusted across it and a petal pink shirt that made her skin look as delicate as Lucy’s often did. “Lucy!” she said as she pushed open the screen door and dragged her daughter into a solid hug. “Oh I’m so happy to see you.”

Lucy hugged her Mother hard and said, “I can see that, Mom. You locked me out.” She pulled out of the hug with a surreptitious attempt at dusting the flour off her clothes. Then nodded at Desmond. “This is my boyfriend. Desmond.”

“Oh, well you are even more handsome in person and _taller_.” She oscillated between offering a hug and a handshake and ended up just hanging her hand out awkwardly in the air for a minute. Desmond shook her hand to spare them both another moment of indecision. 

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Stillman.”

“Yes, you too,” she assured him before motioning them all inside. The interior of the house was blissfully cool after the short hell on the overheated front porch. She was already on her way back to the kitchen. “I just have to finish this pie. Why don’t you go show him your room, Lucy? I left a stack of sheets on your bed for you to use.”

“Ok Mom,” Lucy called. Then she grabbed Desmond by the wrist and dragged him up the stairs, around the corner and down a short hall to her room. It had the distinct smell of having been freshly vacuumed and dusted. Otherwise, it was frozen in a time. The walls were covered in posters, the desk was still stacked with trinkets. There was a dresser that had a large doll with a crocheted dress spread out across it. The closet door was half-open and a full length mirror reflected the stack of boxes inside obscured only here and there by stickers and large black letters. 

Lucy’s bed was a full bed with an ornate wood headboard. There were shelves over the windows with trophies and long-hanging ribbons declaring her the first-place-winner. She turned so her arms were under his and her chin was against his chest. He rested his arms around her body as he looked at all these things and nodded. “If you say anything about my Backstreet Boy posters I will never sleep with you again.”

“I wouldn’t,” Desmond assured her. “Just not what I was expecting. So this is your room?”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. “Not for much longer. I think they are going to convert it finally. We are here for two purposes, to take the things I want to keep and to let my parents meet you.” She released her hold on him and sat on her bed. It squeaked in objection. She burst into laughter. “Oh I forgot about that! Guess we aren’t having sex while we’re here.”

“We could get a hotel room,” Desmond said. He smiled at her frown. “Or just do without.”

“They both work,” Lucy pointed out. “I bet we could break this bed. We should try it.” Then she grinned and bounced up again. “Come on, I’ll show you the swing out back.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> A picture for your wordless Wednesday feature. Also a perfect shirt.

The rest of the trip home had gone by monotonously but without incident. They left early in the morning, drove until they hit a bad storm and found another hotel to stay at. Kadar had managed to stay conscious and the three of them argued about the book he was reading for school. They left when the rain let up in the morning, drove straight through until they arrived at their house.

Mother was at work but Kadar fished the keys out of his pocket and let them in. Sailor was sleeping on the couch—huge in comparison to how tiny he’d been in January—and the whole house smelled of a faintly spicy deliciousness. Kadar spread his arms and said, “home at last!” Then he went immediately for the kitchen.

Leonardo closed the door behind himself and stood there with both his hands in his pockets and his bag hanging off his shoulder. “This is a nice home.”

Malik went over to touch the cat (expected it would leave as soon as it realized it was being touched) and was pleasantly surprised when Sailor lifted his head and rubbed his face against Malik’s fingers. He purred and stretched out on the couch. “It’s home,” Malik said. He didn’t try to pick the cat up but continued to pet him for a moment before motioning for the stairs. “I’ll give you the tour.”

He was showing Leonardo where the bathroom was when Kadar caught up to them. He had an open dish of something that smelled like pure heaven and a mouthful of something else when he stuck his head around the edge of the bathroom doorway. “Odd place to have sex,” he said before continuing on his way. “My bed!” he shouted from his room. “I’ve missed you! My tissues!”

Leonardo looked embarrassed for him. “You have a twin bed,” Leonardo said.

“Kadar has a double,” Malik said. “I’ll go sleep in his room while you’re here.” They had done it often enough whenever someone had stayed over at their house. “Mom should be home in a few hours. Did you call her?” Malik shouted down the hallway.

“Nope. I thought you’d do that.” Then the door slapped shut. 

“I guess I’m calling her,” Malik said. “You look tired, maybe you should take a nap?”

Leonardo shook his head. “I was going to see if I could draw you again. I want to see if you’re different now that you’re at home. Is your brother going to masturbate? I only ask because he was really excited about tissues.”

“Probably,” Malik said.

“I can hear you!”

“Why do you want to draw me again?” Malik asked. “Do you draw all your friends this much? I don’t care but I’m going to get something to eat.” He led them back down to the kitchen and went through the pantry while he called his Mother to let her know that they were safe at home. She asked him to start something for dinner that would be enough to feed everyone. (Not even home a full hour and already having to cook for people, was a bitter surprising thought almost in time with, _why do I have to cook when I lost an arm_.) 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I just opened the picture you sent me. I was travelling home and then ended up having to make dinner last night which was a great deal more complicated than I intended. The upside is I finally got to eat food I actually like. The downside is I had to cook.
> 
> You look very proud of yourself in that shirt. I’m not sure how accurate it is but you do look very proud.

Altair was still wearing the shirt because a lack of people to interact with around him had allowed him to simply remain indoors doing very little but watching junk TV and eating whatever he had in the kitchen. While his shirt proclaimed him to be a god (it said: I was an atheist until I realized I’m a sex god) he was much closer to a slob at the moment. After months (and months and months) of constant motion, stress and drama it was a nice change to lay around in his underwear and the T-shirt doing absolutely nothing.

Except for sex.

Sex might have been a worthwhile addition to his plan for doing nothing. Since that was an inadvisable notion at the moment. (And since he was glaring bitterly at the comment about ‘a well-deserved shower’ from that horse bastard), Altair was left with a half-realized notion toward looking up porn. The trouble with looking up porn was that most of it wasn’t even worth watching. 

He had a great imagination. But that would require effort.

Then there was just going with manual stimulation. He could get off while bored but it was less fun and ultimately the opposite of satisfying. 

That left him lying on his couch with his legs open and his hand half-heartedly fondling himself while he contemplated finding something explicit in nature to watch or just continuing to marathon this police procedural. (So, rather far removed from a sex god at this point.) That fed into him trying to protest Sass’ doubt about how skilled he was at sex. That led to thinking about what Sass might look like and what it would be like to have sex with her. 

That was just an entirely awful way to go. He rolled off the couch and went to find his stupid laptop.

\--

> ### Chat While You Play!
> 
> Son-of-no-one: who is porn supposed to appeal to?  
>  Son-of-no-one: I’m not saying I’m a connoisseur of porn or anything but I’ve been trying to find something worth watching for a couple days and I’m either numb to the intended effect after repeated viewing or I have been looking in the wrong places.  
>  Sass: by wrong places you mean the companies producing the stuff or the type?  
>  Son-of-no-one: do you watch porn?  
>  Sass: I have but it wouldn’t be relevant to you  
>  Son-of-no-one: why?  
>  Sass: because it’s gay porn  
>  Son-of-no-one: that is not the answer I expected. Why would you watch gay porn?  
>  Sass: because it appeals to me  
>  Son-of-no-one: so is this thing where you’re trying to cure me of my homophobia because you want me to sleep with a guy?  
>  Sass: I’ve already told you that I think you would sleep with a man if you weren’t scared of how it would somehow cancel out your masculinity.  
>  Sass: that doesn’t mean that’s my primary motivation.  
>  Son-of-no-one: I find it frustrating that you still give me an over-inflated preoccupation with masculinity when I’ve already spent a week wearing skirts for your amusement. I get that you think my cousins are dicks that filled my head with the idea that I can only be a man if I’m aggressive but you’re forgetting about the other influences in my life  
>  Son-of-no-one: Ezio and Federico are gentle kittens compared to the women that raised me. If you want to find an example the need to be constantly dominating in every conversation and perpetually aggressive then you should probably turn your attention to the female side of the family. Mama Maria and Grandmother are far worse examples than Federico and Ezio. Especially if you could understand that both of their husbands were/are effectively useless in comparison  
>  Sass: so if your Grandmother was alive what would she say to you about this?  
>  Son-of-no-one: I don’t know.  
>  Son-of-no-one: probably that there are worse things to be than gay.  
>  Sass: she’d be right.  
>  Sass: why were you looking at porn for two days?  
>  Son-of-no-one: because everyone’s gone. I don’t have anything to do. I mean I have this new modeling thing but that’s not until later this month and Maria will probably need me to show up and adore her eventually.  
>  Son-of-no-one: I have a meeting in two weeks but otherwise I have nothing to do.  
>  Sass: I have an idea  
>  Son-of-no-one: I don’t like that sentence when you say it  
>  Sass: how about instead of wallowing in your uselessness you go out and get a job. We’ll make it a challenge and if you manage it, you can ask me something or whatever you feel is equal.  
>  Son-of-no-one: what are the terms and restrictions?  
>  Sass: you have to get a job without using your wealth or family name. You have to fill out applications using only your qualifications and be interviewed and hired and manage not to lose the job for at least a month.  
>  Son-of-no-one: part time or full time?  
>  Sass: either.  
>  Son-of-no-one: fine. I’d ask for your phone number but I feel like you’d mistake me for trying to find your identity. So get one of the messenger things that lets you instantly message people through your phone.  
>  Sass: fine.  
>  Son-of-no-one: good. Is Leonardo is still there?  
>  Sass: yes  
>  Son-of-no-one: oh  
>  Sass: he’ll be leaving at the end of the week.  
>  Son-of-no-one: oh.  
>  Sass: Scrabble?  
>  Son-of-no-one: well that’s why we’re here.

Kadar hadn’t intended on walking in on the conversation in the kitchen but Malik had shown up ‘to sleep’ and spent the past hour and thirty minutes typing with deadly slowness and making scoffing noises while he played Scrabble with Altair online. Sleeping under such conditions were impossible and that was how he ended up in the kitchen searching for something to eat (or drink) where Mother was sitting at the little side table with Leonardo sharing a cup of tea.

The tea meant whatever was being said was of deep importance and the endearing softness on Mother’s face meant that Mother must have all but tried to officially adopt Leonardo. They were both quiet when he walked in.

“Hi,” he said.

“Is your brother sleeping?” Mother asked.

No he was having stupid conversations with his internet boyfriend and keeping me awake indefinitely. “Uh, not yet.” Kadar was going to take something to eat but Mother’s attention on him dissuaded him from the attempt. Either she was aware he was going to try to steal food and disapproved or she wanted him gone so she could finish whatever meaningful conversation she was having. He got a glass of water, drank it by the sink and rinsed it out before he left. “Good night,” he said.

“Night,” Leonardo said.

“Good night,” Mother called. “Tell your brother to let you sleep.”

Yes, that was a think that Kadar would not be doing.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> I thought you were only visiting for two days.
> 
> Well the plan was to stay for two days if it was awkward and awful
> 
> Except for the part where Lucy convinced me to have sex with her and her parents came home in the middle it hasn’t been bad.
> 
> Did you finish?
> 
> After she threw me off the bed. It squeaks
> 
> Ouch.
> 
> But her parents are good people

Desmond made it four days before Bee (that was her Father’s name that he insisted he be called) cornered him in the backyard around a grill covered with slowly-charring meat. Desmond had little experience with cookouts but Lucy had given him the general run down of what to expect. (Potato salad, she said. There was always potato salad.) There was more family coming over to see Lucy since it had been quite a while since she’d been back home. The fact that a great deal of the people mentioned seemed to be women probably translated into quite a bit of attention in his direction.

(Lucy had told him that they would all want to talk to him. She also said that she’d have to put up with them telling her that she should do a variety of dumb things to make him marry her.) 

But Bee was a sturdy, older man with a gut that settled low at his waist and pushed his shirts out just enough that he looked perpetually about to lose a button. He had white hair over his ears and dark hair that grew wild between the open two buttons of his shirt. There was always a pen in his shirt and apparently he liked to smoke sweet-smelling cigars when he thought he could get away with it. He didn’t berate Desmond about his intentions toward his daughter but give him a thirty minute lesson on how to make the perfect hamburger. 

The rise of noise inside the house made Bee sigh. “Son,” he said, “I’ve seen enough of your family on the TV to know that there’s not a lot that should scare you. I’ve seen the way my daughter looks at me and I know you’ve seen what she is willing and capable of doing to someone that treats her wrong. So I’m not going to threaten you and I’m not going to lecture you. But if you survive the next two hours, I guess you’re all right and I wouldn’t mind it if you wanted to go ahead and date my daughter.” He sighed then in a way that betrayed his overly casual attempt at humor. “But you might want to go ahead and marry her seeing how she’s been on the TV and now every man in America knows how pretty she is.”

Desmond smiled because he had absolutely no response for that. Lucy came out through the back door in a pretty summer dress with little flowers all over and immediately came over to take him by the arm with a brief word to explain Desmond was needed inside. When she parted him from her father she said, “we can make a run for it. We’re faster than those old ladies in there. And my cousin is pregnant so she can’t run at all. We’ll head for the car and have them mail our stuff.”

“I don’t think it’s that bad,” Desmond said. 

“Before we go in there, please know that I don’t expect you to marry me and I think it’d be irresponsible to be thinking of something that immense this soon. They,” she motioned at them, “are not a reflection of me. Got it?”

“Yes,” Desmond said.

“Ok. Well, let’s go. I hope you like getting your butt pinched.”

\--

BestofThree: @horse, so I have to ask if you do commissions because your bio says you are an engineer. Does that mean you are less focused on your art? (6h ago)

Horse: @bestofthree, I am many things. I have not made a career out of my art but I have done commissions. What sort of thing were you thinking? (6h ago)

Bestofthree: @horse, I think your art is amazing. I see that most of what you have online here is animals and landscapes. I love your trees have you ever done people? (6h ago)

Horse: @bestofthree, I have. I’ll have to find one to scan when I’m home again. (5h ago)

There was absolutely nothing sly or even slightly covert about the way Mother decided to take Kadar out for a few hours the evening before Leonardo was leaving. There was a pronounced air of permission (and even encouragement) in the way she pointedly informed him that she would be taking Kadar to visit Aunt Jean and would not be back for _several hours_. Malik wasn’t sure (exactly) what she thought of gay sex but he was pretty sure that several hours was ambitious even before the accident.

When she was gone and they were truly alone, Malik turned around to look at Leonardo sitting on the couch looking painfully embarrassed with his hands spread in innocence. “I didn’t—I did not tell her anything.”

Malik sighed. “Well come on then.” He expected a protest (and wasn’t sure why he would) but Leonardo go on his feet and followed him all the way up the stairs to his bedroom. Leonardo was packed to leave in the morning, everything was put away except the clothes he intended to wear. Malik closed the door and stood between his dresser on the wall by the door and the end of his bed. Leonardo was far more lax in the making of the bed than Malik was and the rumpled sheets almost convinced him this wasn’t the same bed he’d had since he was fourteen. “I don’t think I can do this,” Malik said.

“Why?” Leonardo asked. He sat down on the end of the bed so his legs were spread open around the corner of it. “Do you feel physically incapable?”

No, that wasn’t it. While he wasn’t feeling as inclined toward sex as he had before, his body was recovered enough now to start reminding him of its various wants. He wasn’t exhausted, he wasn’t in pain as much (unless he forgot his stretches or slept the wrong way). Physically, he was capable—perhaps even interested—in sex. “Can’t you just do it? If I told you that I wanted it. Do you need me to be involved?”

Leonardo snorted. “Well, it helps. If you could chose anything, what would you want?”

Not to be standing here having this conversation. Not to have this thing hanging over his head like an obligation. Not to feel like this was something he _had_ to do rather than something wanted. Malik just shook his head. Leonardo nodded and reached out to pull him over and drag him onto the bed. They didn’t fit easily, Malik had to lay on his side and Leonardo curved up against his back. 

“Do you think I could convince Ezio to have sex with me?” Leonardo asked. “I mean, maybe he isn’t as straight as he seems? Everyone experiments and if one must experiment, one should certainly go with the best available option.” His fingers wormed under Malik’s shirt the way they always had and pressed against his belly. 

“I think if any man can get Ezio Auditore in his bed it’s you. I don’t think it’d be the experience you think it would be.” Malik fluffled the pillow under his head and looked down at the bumps of Leonardo’s knuckles under his shirt. 

“I just want to have sex with him. I want to know what he sounds like when I’m wringing an orgasm out of his body and he’s completely wrecked because I’ve been using him for hours and he can’t take it anymore. I want to know what his face looks like when he’s fucking and what his mouth tastes like. I want to rub his dick all over my body and come on his stupid perfect face. I have no pure intentions toward him.” 

God. That was a thought. “Well.”

“What would you do with Altair if you had another chance?”

Malik sighed. “Be sober so I can remember it. Maybe make sure I can actually see his face when we’re fucking. Not wake up alone.”

“Your sexual fantasies need work, Malik.” Leonardo kissed the back of his neck and let out a low puff of breath. “I told your Mother we weren’t serious. She seemed disappointed because she thought I was very responsible and good for you. I was thinking about all the times that I’ve bent you over something or how I got you high or the time you asked me to help you improve your blow job skills because you received poor reviews.”

“I think that’s responsible of you. I needed the help.” Malik wiggled so he was laying half on his back and half up against Leonardo’s chest. “I don’t think I’m going to start this, Leonardo. I’m not going to say I want it. If you do—I mean, if it’s important to you, we can.”

“I want to,” Leonardo said. (There was simply no containing the strange cool chill that went through Malik’s entire body then.) “I always want to. But only when you actually do want it. Can I draw on you?” 

“Will it wash off?”

“Yes, eventually,” Leonardo said. He sat up enough to grab his bag and pulled out a little bag of permanent markers. He shifted up onto his knees and sat across Malik’s thighs with an impatient motion at his shirt. Malik had to arch his back to pull his shirt up to his arm pits and Leonardo pulled out a pink marker and took the cap off with his teeth. “Don’t flinch or it’ll mess up.”

“Don’t tickle me,” Malik retorted. Leonardo rolled his eyes. “I am going to miss you.”

“Of course you will.” Leonardo smiled around the cap in his mouth and leaned forward to start sketching lines onto his chest.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I am honestly surprised that you haven’t already shown her your penis. I didn’t think that this was a problem you had. I might be caught in semi-constant shock that you have yet to send me pictures of your penis. (This isn’t an invitation at this point, by the way. I’m just saying it seems like something that you’d do.) 
> 
> Schedule your day off to accommodate your previous obligations. It’s a thing that adults learn how to do when they become gainfully employed. It’s a thing you should have learned how to do. There’s no time limit but I’ll probably be less likely to be speedy in fulfilling my end of the deal if you’re lax about starting yours.
> 
> Leonardo left this morning. We didn’t have sex before we went but he used me as a canvas. I’m not sure what his feelings about the no sex thing was but I woke up this morning and realized he drew nineteen dicks on my stomach after I stopped paying attention to what he was doing. Nineteen of them. Nineteen little dicks with tiny legs and arms parading around my gut. At this point I’m not even sure what he was trying to tell me.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  Maria didn’t believe me when I told her how big my penis is so she wants to see it for herself (lest she be spreading ‘lies’ around about me). Would it be wrong to show my fake-girlfriend? In other news, I still haven’t gotten off the couch to do anything with myself. Is there a time limit to this bet of yours? I’m only curious because I have no motivation to go find a job and I have a few sporadic obligations that might make maintaining a job difficult. 
> 
> I obviously don’t know how jobs work.

It was probably morally wrong how pleased Altair was. (It was probably a stupid idea to be so happy over something so insignificant or to continue to allow himself to align his joy with Sass’ decision not to have sex with other people.) If he were a better (person) friend he might have asked Sass why she didn’t feel like sleeping with this guy. He might have tried to carry on a real conversation about her self-image and how she needed to work on accepting her body as it was.

But he didn’t.

He smirked at the e-mail, contemplating sending dick pictures and ultimately (in an attempt to overcome his indecision) ended up starting to cook dinner. He was halfway through steaming vegetables (a task that he’d never even attempted before in his life) when he was interrupted by Desmond shuffling into his kitchen. 

“What happened?” Desmond asked. He looked exhausted by his recent vacation. The sagging of his shoulders and the emotionless cast of his face meant he was most likely overwhelmed by the sheer amount of interaction he survived. Still, it wasn’t a heavy exhaustion.

“Uh,” (Leonardo-the-dick left), “nothing. I just wanted to eat something that wasn’t delivered for a change. How was the trip?”

Desmond didn’t believe him (not for a minute) but whatever he found when he squinted his eyes at Altair for a moment obviously didn’t seem dangerous enough to poke. Instead he sat on the table in the kitchen and let out a long breath. “Well, her Aunts pinch butts. That’s what I found out.” He was half-smiling when he said it. “Especially butts they like.”


	45. Chapter 45

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Didn’t think Sass would ever tell you but I thought you’d like to know. Her birthday is July thirteenth. 

Information like that had the potential to drive someone insane. Altair was supposed to be working on perfecting his physique since he’d been somewhat lax in keeping up with his body and people with cameras wanted to look at him naked again. (Maria, also helpfully, pointed out that he wasn’t as tight as he had been.)

He was disgusting with sweat, thinking about what he could give to Sass and why her brother would give him this information behind her back. (No he wasn’t, he wasn’t even interested in why her brother felt like this was an appropriate use of his time because it was Sass’ birthday.)

\--

> ### July 8, 2008: Troublesome Tuesdays Return
> 
> I would like to extend my sincerest thanks to **NotYourBrother** for his assistance in the past several weeks. However, now that he’s gone, allow me to take this moment to return to our regular programming.
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,  
>  Perhaps you felt that I was too preoccupied to notice or perhaps you have grown so accustom to our friendship that you felt I would not say something to you on the matter. This issue has gone on long enough that I feel like it has to be brought to everyone’s attention and discussed. Allow me to be brief:
> 
> Violence is not a valid method of self-expression.  
>  **(Read More…)**
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Trouble Tuesday, I: use your words Altair, I: hands are for helping Altair, W: Violence, W: Injury, W: bullshit excuses_  
> 

Malik didn’t like the silence of the house. While Mother hadn’t taken to waking him up early in the morning for the first prayers of the day, the sound of Kadar and her shuffling their way downstairs always woke him up. He laid in his bed with Sailor curiously batting at the light under his closed door and his sense of peace sitting crookedly in his chest. In the dark, he tried to convince himself to go back to sleep and never managed it. He sat on the side of the bed, rubbing his hand against the soft-soft flannel of the pants he slept in. His blankets were kicked in piles at the end of his bed.

Alone, he looked at the door and the cat that did wide-wide cycles from the stream of light coming in from the hallway to his feet to meow insistently about freedom. Sometimes, Malik scooped Sailor up and held the cat in his lap and sometimes he did nothing until the cat clawed at his pants. (Sometimes, he thought about the incredible timing of the accident, about the magnificent coincidence of Sofia not being able to sleep at the hotel, about Leonardo mouthing off about finding a quicker route home, about the man who was always too late to parties being out so late at night. Sometimes, he thought about the resolution he’d made in this room, on this bed when he was still begging for forgiveness for being born the way he was. When it made him angry, it made him _furious_. But now-and-again, it broke his back with weight he had earned with his deeds.) 

Mother was in the kitchen with breakfast when he finally came out of his room. Kadar ate and went back to bed. (He got up only to leave and stay out with his friends as long as he could physically manage.) In the quiet of the kitchen, Mother read the paper. Malik ate his breakfast. 

When they were both gone, the house was too big to tolerate. The solitude and silence of it drove him outside. Walking cleared his head. Walking restored his balance. Walking reminded him that (most of) his body was still good.

\--

coffee4college: just in case anyone thought looking ‘this good’ was easy, here’s a photo of @son-of-no-one #takeashower (30m ago)

Shirley-Templar: @coffee4college, however looks flawless as usual (29m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Shirley-Templar, I see now where your loyalty lies. (27m ago)

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, his loyalty lies where it should. With his girlfriend. (10m ago)

“You remember when I told you to get this woman off your dick?” Lucy asked. They were standing in the elevator on the way up to their respective homes. She had her hair pulled up, the sweat from their run already dried into an invisible film on her skin. Desmond was grimacing at his phone while he tried to look casual with a boner like nobody would notice that however the two idiots had amused themselves while waiting for him to catch up to the elevator didn’t involve dirty promises.

Altair felt gross. His hair was still wet from sweat and every other part of him felt tacky and smelled like a rotting moose corpse. “Yes.”

“You really did a bad job of that.” Lucy tucked her phone back into her pocket and smiled at Desmond while she leaned into the wall behind her. Her elbow was close enough to knock against Altair’s and she pointed at her boyfriend standing there trying not to look conspicuous. 

“Yeah I know,” Altair said.

Lucy’s smile just got bigger. “What’s that like? I could spend half my day in the same state of arousal and nobody would know. I mean, I might have to take a break to change my panties but it’s not like anyone’s going to know but me.”

“It’s awkward,” Altair said. “Now, this is your floor, go put him out of his misery and take a shower. I need help coming up with something to give Sass for her birthday.” He shooed them out when the door opened before Lucy could say anything else and Desmond was helpful about catching her by the hand and pulling her toward their door.

\--

> ### Wednesday July 9, 2008: grayscale for effect
> 
> [Black and white photo of Altair standing in the middle of a living room, wearing dress pants, belt and a white-button down shirt. He is looking down at the tie he is in the middle of tying. His suit jacket is lying over a chair, his computer is open on the coffee table behind him (the screen is indistinct but the colors of the Sett seem to be obvious). Altair is still barefoot and his cuffs are unbuttoned. His expression is neutral.]
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Wordless Wednesdays, I: show off_  
> 

Kadar hated buying things for Malik. He abhorred it above and beyond the call of hatred because in all his life he had yet to find something that he felt like his brother actually _liked_. There were things that seemed to amuse him and there were things that he was pleased to get. There was never anything that he’d gotten (ever, from anyone) that seemed to make a real impression.

“I don’t understand why we even have to get him something,” Kadar remarked to his Mother. It felt like the same thing he’d said every year of his life and yet the way she looked at him quick-slanted and _sharp_ was much more a reprimand than normal. She frowned at him and he sighed. “It’s not like he’s suddenly changed. I don’t want to get him another gift card. We’ve spent hundreds of dollars buying gift cards to bookstores. There has to be something he’d appreciate.”

Mother threaded her arm through his and squeezed his hand between both of hers. “Your brother appreciates your gifts, Kadar. You should stop expecting something from him he has never been capable of.” 

Yeah well, Malik was capable of happiness. Malik was capable of stupidity. Malik was capable of carrying around a dumbass stuffed badger under his arm for a week straight. Malik was capable of being attached to _things_. (The bastard still slept with that badger on his bed, somewhere near his face.) 

“Well, what should we get him?” Kadar asked. “Clothes? Stapler? Another history book?”

Mother stopped to the side of the aisle that led them straight back through the middle of the department store. She let out a low noise like a sigh of defeat. There was no denying the difficulty in getting Malik something he actually wanted. She had given up years ago and replaced gifts with hard-to-make meals. Malik liked food he rarely got and while she wasn’t a fan of cooking (her face while she made his requests was proof of that) she was as intent on scoring a sincere smile from his brother as Kadar was. “Something for his cat?” she suggested. “Sailor has been clawing the furniture.”

“We could get him another cat _and_ something for the cat,” Kadar said. 

Two cats was an ambitious notion (judging by Mother’s expression) but she at least took a moment to think about it. “Do you think he would like having two cats?”

“I think he’s wanted a cat as long as I can remember. I remember him doing some kind of speech about how cats liked having company? It might just have been something he came up with because he wanted more than one.” Kadar looked at his Mother (and perhaps for the first time, noticed how much taller than her he was) as she worked through her distaste at having more animals before she nodded. 

“We are at the wrong store for this,” Mother said. “If we are getting a new cat we will need to adopt him from the shelter.”

\--

horse: it took me longer than expected to find something worth scanning (20m ago)

Horse: also I paint (19m ago)

BestofThree: @horse, that is amazing. (3m ago)

Altair finished his monthly meeting (suffered in elegant silence) then met Desmond for (late) lunch with his tie pulled loose and the choking buttons of his shirt undone. He had a sheet of paper and a pen he’d stolen from the office in the space between their drink cups and silverware while they waited for the appetizers to appear. “Wait, what do you mean achievements? What the hell does that mean?”

Desmond was sighing as he rubbed his fingers against his temple in that way that meant he was trying to work out how to explain something obvious to an idiot. “Did you get any special awards from your high school?”

“No,” Altair said. “I mean, I graduated at sixteen does that count as an achievement? What would my skills be? I assume it’s supposed to be relevant to whatever job I’m applying for?”

“Well,” Desmond said. “I would mention you’re multi-lingual. This is really all you have? You’ve graduated, that’s it? You haven’t ever done volunteer work? You haven’t _ever_ had a job?”

“I’m the owner of a multi-national, multi-billion, multi-layered _empire_. I have stocks, I have inheritance, I own a few historical landmarks and I sometimes appear on a reality TV show. I mean I could put that I was a kid actor but I’m not sure that’s relevant.”

“Right,” Desmond said. “And modelling probably won’t help you either.”

“No, probably not.” The discussion was interrupted by the arrival of food. Altair sat back and let the waiter place the plates. He tucked the paper into the inside pocket on his suit jacket and thanked the waiter when he saw Desmond do it. When they were alone again, he sighed. “Anyway, we can talk about that later or I’ll just make something up. How’re things with Lucy?”

“Good,” Desmond said. “Her entire family tried to force us to get married while we were there. That was a little obnoxious.”

“How long do you have to be dating before you can marry the girl?” Altair asked.

“I’d like to have a better sense of security before we talk about making binding contracts. She’s still half convinced the bullshit her friends say about her is right. Sometimes, I think when she looks at me, she’s still thinking about how fucked up I am and trying to figure out if she can be patient and understanding the rest of her life. I think the fact that I don’t have an opinion for everything bothers her more than it should.” Desmond shrugged. “She wants kids too.”

“You don’t?” Altair asked. That seemed strange to him. It seemed like the sort of thing that Ezio might have said but not Desmond. Ezio was notoriously against the notion of children (at least accidental ones, he might have a different opinion if he were married). Federico had also protested children and responsibility. Desmond seemed like the sort to find comfort in a family. 

“I have no reason to think that I’d be capable of the level of mental health required to be a decent father. It’s not that I wouldn’t want kids. It’s—I don’t know. It’s not something I thought would happen for me.” Desmond took a drink of his water. “So what is the point in you getting a job? To teach you the value of hard work? Humility? To give you something to do with yourself?”

“I don’t know,” Altair said. “For all I know she just wants to laugh at me. That seems like what she’d do.” Then he turned his attention to the food and let the conversation drift into nonsense.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> What’s going on with you and Claudia?
> 
> The message I received from her asked if I were willing to do some landscape paintings for her.
> 
> She’s also interested in how comfortable I am with painting animals.
> 
> She also asked about my skill at creating sculptures.
> 
> Of course you said that you’d do anything
> 
> Well it is Claudia Auditore.
> 
> The sister of Ezio Auditore.
> 
> I can get money and a chance to touch that magnificent man.
> 
> I would cast aspersions on your artistic integrity if I thought you had any
> 
> I was going to give you something for your birthday but you’ve hurt my feelings.
> 
> Oh darn

Malik hid during prayer times with such regularity that it was only inevitable that his Mother would _finally_ corner him. She was very clever about it in that she was far more patient than he was. After dark, he went outside to sit in the old furniture that sagged when sat in and had split cushions they couldn’t afford to replace. She was already sitting there, sipping sweet tea while she watched the sky go dark.

“Son,” she said when he stood there indecisively caught between continuing on to sitting outside for a while and an inelegant but necessary retreat. Her face, half visible beyond her shoulder, was clearly waiting for him to make a choice as well. His moment of indecision stuttered on too many seconds because she patted her hand on the chair next to her. “Come sit.” Then once he had sat down, she said, “it will be easier if you say what is on your mind.”

That was not true. Malik was good at keeping things banging around the inside of his head and bad at making the words come out of his mouth. Everything he tried to say turned mean and poisonous. Still he licked his lips. “I’m never going to start praying again. I don’t believe in Allah. I don’t find comfort in religion.” There was bitter defiance in the words and shame that made him duck his head so he couldn’t see Mother’s expression.

“I will continue to hope that you find your way back, Malik. I cannot force you to find comfort in religion much the same way you cannot expect that I would hope for any other outcome.” There was a soft sound that her mouth made when she was trying to figure out how to phrase something. Her hand reached across the distance to touch his. “When you were very young, I said to your Father: our son is different. Your persistence was a source of pride for your Father. He was very strong-minded, very strong-willed himself. He said that you would go far in your life as long as you had a goal to reach. I said, that is not how our son is different. You were such a young thing, Malik. You still had fat in your cheeks and curls in your hair and I knew when I held you that you would struggle. When your Father got sick, I told him: take your son now and tell him how much you love him. Fill your son with the reassurance he will need when he is becoming a man. I told him to tell you that no matter the path you chose, no matter how long it took for you to find your way, and how many times you were lost, alone and hurt that your Father and your Mother would never falter in their love for you. This is what your Father said to you when you were a child. These are the words that he filled your ears with every morning and every night. These are the things he said to you when he knew that his time was short.” When Malik looked at her there were tears in her eyes. She sniffled and cleared her throat. “These are the words that you cannot hear. The things that you cannot force yourself to believe.”

Malik didn’t like the way that felt. He didn’t like the way her words were heavy in his head and how they wrapped around him, tight and hot, until he was choked of anything to think at all but shame. He moved his hand away from hers and felt the little clench of her fingers trying to catch his. “I know you love me,” Malik said. 

“It is more than that,” Mother said. “Love is not universal. Love is not a cure. Love can be blind. I am _proud_ of you. I believe in your goodness. These are the things that you do not understand.”

But she didn’t know everything he’d done. She didn’t know what he was capable of when he was far-away-from-her. Maybe he thought (or wanted to think) she wasn’t even capable of imagining the sort of things he had done (or was currently doing). “I try to remember,” he said instead of denying it.

She smiled at him. He smiled back. Then she said, “your brother is still angry you do not enjoy your birthday more.”

Then Malik just sighed. He had given up on trying to convince Kadar he liked his gifts when the idiot kid was seven or eight years old. “Well, at least that hasn’t changed.”

\--

> ### Chat While You Play!
> 
> Sass: pemphix?  
>  Sass: that is not a word  
>  Son-of-no-one: you keep saying that but the game won’t let you play a word that isn’t in the dictionary  
>  Sass: you’re making shit up  
>  Sass: that’s not a word  
>  Son-of-no-one: it is a word. It’s a skin disease.  
>  Sass: THAT IS NOT A WORD  
>  Son-of-no-one: YOU’RE ABSURD  
>  Son-of-no-one: IT IS A WORD  
>  Son-of-no-one: AND I’M PUTTING ‘EFFORTLESSLY DEFEATING PEOPLE AT SCRABBLE’ ON MY SKILLS LIST FOR MY RESUME  
>  Sass: you fucking bitch  
>  Son-of-no-one: words hurt  
>  Sass: shut up  
>  Sass: I will accept that is a word  
>  Sass: but I don’t believe it  
>  Son-of-no-one: as long as you can live with the contradiction.  
>  Son-of-no-one: NOTHING IS TRUE  
>  Sass: and apparently EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED  
>  Sass: stop your smug smirking too  
>  Son-of-no-one: I wasn’t  
>  Sass: there is no way you weren’t  
>  Son-of-no-one: well I am now.

Kadar was expecting Malik to protest more when he dragged his brother out of the house. Malik had protested wildly every time they left the apartment when they were living with Leonardo. Now he went without protest, safely hidden inside his light summer jacket with the pinned-up sleeve.

“But where are we going?” Malik asked. They took the bus because Mother had taken the car to work. Kadar stood and Malik sat with a displeased expression caught in his dark-dark eyebrows. “Ok, don’t tell me but can you tell me what I’m supposed to feel about where we’re going?”

No, no he could not. Kadar said nothing but smiled as pleasantly as he could possibly manage. Instead of addressing the question, he said, “so is Leonardo going to get this commission with the rich people?” It was a pitiful attempt to be sly about asking. But descriptive enough that Malik understood him. 

“Probably,” Malik said. He fidgeted with the button of the zipper on his jacket in a way that meant he wasn’t pleased. Then he looked up at him again. “Where are we going?”

Kadar ignored him until they reached the stop that was closest to the shelter. He dragged Malik (not literally) along until abruptly stopping outside of the modest looking building asking for donations and asking people to ‘consider adoption!’. He motioned at it. “Sailor needs a friend that understands him.”

“There is no way Mom agreed to this,” Malik said. It might have been all Kadar’s imagination but he was fairly sure that a smile was itching at the edge of Malik’s frown. “How did you get her to agree to this?”

“Well, you did all the hard work. What with having your arm amputated and all. I just asked.” He smiled and Malik rolled his eyes but when they started walking again, it was Malik leading the way. They had to stop at the front desk and announce their intentions before they were admitted to the area to see the available pets. The dogs were barking and whining for attention, looking miserable and trapped in their metal cages while people browsed through them with indecisive eyes. 

The cat room was through a second door, there was a volunteer in the corner talking to a couple about how to properly care for a cat they were considering. Malik started in the far corner of the room, taking the time to read the cards on each of the metal doors while he brushed his fingers over the outstretched paws of the kittens clawing for attention. He stopped for a while in front of an arrogant looking cat that lounged on a raised platform with (his) long tail hanging down. It’s eyes were half-closed and the tip of its tail was twitching back and forth. 

“That does not look like a friendly cat,” Kadar said. He skimmed over the information on the card. Something about how it had been surrendered because it hated infants. The cat looked like it hated everyone. (Or at very least, felt like everyone was beneath it.) “I was expecting you to get a kitten. You know something closer to Sailor’s size.”

“Yeah,” Malik said, “we need to get a cat that’s friendly enough to play with others.” But he lingered another minute looking at the cat that didn’t care about his existence. When he made it to the end of the available cats (thankfully slim pickings), he went back to the cage with the kittens that were all rolling onto their backs and trying to wiggling through the bars to catch the string of Malik’s jacket. “This is the only thing I’ve wanted for my birthday as long as I can remember,” Malik said. He reached his finger through the bars of the door (despite the sign that said not to) and rubbed the closet kitten on the head. It opened its little mouth to meow at him and swatted at the string on his jacket again. 

“That one seems to like you,” Kadar said. He looked back at the volunteer that was stacking papers and watching them to see when they’d need help. She must have noticed they were interested because she came over with a great big smile. “Hey,” Kadar said, “can we hold this one.”

“Sure,” she said. Then she opened the cage door and Malik’s kitten bounded over to the opening, knocking over the other two kittens in the cage with him. She laughed as she pulled him out and held him out toward Malik. It was clear from the look on her face that she had no idea how to properly pass the kitten to him. Malik stood there half-second too long trying to figure out how to take the kitten before Kadar reached between them to take it and drop it on Malik’s chest. “Sorry,” the volunteer said.

“Ow,” Malik said. He put his hand under the kitten but it had already clawed into his jacket and started its ascent toward his shoulder. “Ow,” he said again as he tried to pull the kitten off. It meowed in dire protest until Malik relented. “Ok fine, stay there.” He stroked the kitten’s wispy black fur and touched its little white toes. 

The volunteer (Mindy, her name tag said) gave them the basic breakdown of the adoption process and what was expected of them. Malik nodded along while he played with the kitten. He made faces at it until it crawled up to the space just below his jaw and rested there like a little fuzzy lump. “I think he likes you,” Mindy said.

“Yeah,” Kadar agreed. They took the paperwork to fill out and gave the kitten to Mindy to put in a cardboard carrier (something the kitten did not like). They went out to the front desk to talk to the lady (and be lectured again about proper animal care) before the kitten was brought out. The paperwork was finished all except the name of the cat. “I’m starving,” Kadar said after an awkward ninety seconds had passed. “Come up with something to put on the paper.”

“Aquila,” Malik said. 

They were outside, halfway to arguing about how they were going to get home with the cat in a box and whether or not the bus would allow it before Kadar said, “isn’t Aquila the constellation with—” (Altair’s star in it.)

“Yes, shut up. It was the first thing I thought of.” 

\--

> ### July 12, 2008: Sexy Saturdays: How often does this happen?
> 
> “I work as a flight attendant for an airline that for obvious reasons I am not willing to disclose. Most of the time, I pamper overly wealthy types that are superficially polite but actually rude and condescending. I had broken up with boyfriend a few days before the flight and I was angry as hell because he cheated on me with some tramp. Imagine my joy at finding Altair in my section. One of my co-workers knew him from previous flights and she said that he flirted a lot but he was generally not a problem. 
> 
> I was feeling angry at my asshole ex so every smile and little bit of flirting that Altair threw my way made me feel vindicated and victorious. Without going into too many details, my ex was the sort that tried to make himself feel better by making everyone around him feel worse. So, the fact that this man—rich, good looking—found me worth the time to spend a few unnecessary words to interact with me was really inspiring. 
> 
> Halfway through a long flight, I stopped by his seat and asked for his help reaching something. He agreed to help me because despite the public opinion of his behavior, he actually is a decent enough guy. I think when I pulled him into the first class bathroom that he was authentically surprised. I thought I had been straightforward about my intentions but just judging by his face, he clearly had not expected it. A real lady never kisses and tells so I won’t go into details about what happened in the bathroom but I assure you that whatever his other failings, Altair is a capable and thorough lover. Even in small spaces.”
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays, I: Not in public Altair, W: Inappropriate Language, W: Sexual Content_  
>  • **Son-of-No-One**  
>  I have mixed feelings about whether or not I should identify this woman since she doesn’t want to be discovered? Although I’m not sure how she managed not to get caught all things considered. Her name was Isla, we met in winter. When she says I was unaware she is understating the situation. I didn’t even have a vague idea.  
>  • **Sass-Badger (Moderator)**  
>  Yes. Correct.  
>  • **NotYourBrother**  
>  How do you not know? I mean to ask this since the number of your experiences is astronomical to me. It just ruins the image I have of you to think that you missed the fact that this woman was going to undress you in an airplane bathroom.  
>  • **Son-of-No-One**  
>  Well, there’s harmless flirting and then there’s ‘drag you by the shirt front into a bathroom and rip your pants off’. I was under the impression we were entertaining the first and she was apparently set on the second.  
> 

Altair had not applied to any jobs by Saturday and he felt bad about it in a vague way that had no definite impact on his life. After laying around for half the morning (waiting for inspiration to care about something to set in) he decided that he could either continue to lay around and tolerate the anxiety in his gut about the gift he sent to Sass or he could get up and do something redeemable.

In case she found his gift in poor taste (and there was a strong possibility that she would), redeeming himself through trying to get a job (like she told him to) seemed like a decent idea. The thought drove him out of bed, into decent (but not too nice) clothes and out looking for something that an unemployable fool like him could possibly be hired at. He left the city proper in favor of something less overwhelming. The commute wasn’t even worth the wage he’d make (no wage was worth the commute) but he only had to manage to keep the job for a few weeks. 

\--

> FROM: K [Notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t know if I should high-five you or tell you to run. No I do know. You are my inspiration. You are a god. You are the best and worst thing that has ever happened to Sass. The idiot deserves you. You deserve the idiot. 
> 
> I’m trying to calm down enough to send you a proper mail because sure you two probably talk about all kinds of things and maybe you have some idea what Sass is really like. If you do you’d know that she is all kinds of unpleasant about 60% of the time with standards that nobody can live up to (not even Sass). But you might not know that she’s literally impossible to buy things for. Because she doesn’t collect things that are useless and she doesn’t treasure things that serve no purpose at all. Above all, she’s attracted to practical and boring. In all the years of my life I have never, ever not even once seen her actually react to a gift. Never. Sure there’s the smiling and the thank you’s and the quiet reassurance that it is well liked. But this. Oh this was screaming and mouthing off about everything. This was blushing so hard she turned purple and I have never heard so many curses issued toward one single person in my whole life. 
> 
> I just—you are a god. Never change. Don’t believe her if she said she doesn’t love everything about your stupid gift. Don’t believe her for a second.

The whole thing started out innocently enough. The package was delivered in the morning with a return address listed as Tony-something-something New York City. It was a large brown box, evidently heavy enough to warrant a dolly to move it and obnoxiously oversized to get into the door without expending more effort than Kadar wanted to expend. He dragged it into the center of the living room by the couch at Malik’s urging.

“Altair?” Kadar asked. (He only dared speak the name out loud because Mother was shopping for Malik’s birthday dinner the next day.) “What in the hell did he send you?” When he straightened up from dragging the box he was smiling into the scowl on Malik’s face. “What?” Kadar asked. “When you were having drunken sex with him did you mention your birthday? Oh your penis is so big, oh my birthday is in July?” He did a poor job of moaning because his face was cracking open in a smirk. There was a laugh at the end that burst out into the air like a witch cackle when Malik smacked him on the arm. “Oh, you’re so good at sex Altair, oh you’ll know who I am by my birthday it’s July—” Kadar ducked out of getting hit again and ran around the end of the couch before Malik could catch him. He expected to be chased but not for Malik to pick up a magazine off the table and throw it with approximate accuracy. It hit him in the head hard enough to throw him to the side and he landed on the floor with a laugh. “Ok, but you should open it before Mom gets here. Who knows what this jerk sent you.”

“Fine,” Malik snapped at him. 

Kadar found a pair of scissors to open the tape on the box. Then he sat in the arm chair while Malik perched himself on the edge of the couch and pulled the flaps open. There was a layer of paper on top that he had to pull up and set on the floor. Then his face flattened into the world’s least amused frown. He reached in and pulled out a dictionary. Then another, and then another and then another. Each of them a different version—hardback, paperback, kid’s editions, picture dictionaries. He stacked them on the table and then the floor and when he got to (approximately) the twentieth one he let out a sound like a frog croaking into a laugh. 

“I hate him,” he said with a smile pulling at his lips and a laugh in his voice. “I hate everything about him.” He had to lean forward to pull up the next dictionary. Then another one. He tossed a paperback version at Kadar before pulling out a special edition of Scrabble. There was a piece of paper taped to it that said, ‘ _now you can practice when I’m not available. Practice makes perfect_ ’. “This is your fault,” Malik said. He shook the box in his direction but the smile on his face under-minded his attempt at sincerity. He set that box to the side and got up to reach the bottom of the box. He pulled out a second box with a handle that was full of cat toys. The sound of the jingling bells and the alluring scent of high-quality catnip must have alerted the lazy boys that they were needed because they barreled down the stairs like a herd of elephants and crashed into the pile of paper and spilt toys at the side of the couch. Aquila was undersized in comparison to the toy mouse but Sailor was big enough to attack the feathers with confidence.

“Did you tell him about your new cat yet?” Kadar asked. He picked up the end of the feather toy and bounced it in the air. Sailor took personal offense to the trick and swatted at it. Aquila was tempted but he was also curled around the mouse toy with his tiny little mouth trying to gnaw on its face. 

“No,” Malik said. He ducked into the box again, pressed his knee against the outside of it and levered one last box out of it. That one was wrapped with birthday-print paper all silver and sleek looking. There was a card attached to the top that had the word ‘Sass’ on the outside. The envelope seemed expensive just by the sheer thickness of the paper it was made of. Malik opened it after a few false starts. The card on the inside was made of thick cream colored paper. There was a hand-drawn badger on the front of it wearing a birthday cap eating (what was hopefully a cake that looked like) a butt with a candle sticking out of the crack. 

“He’s stupid,” Kadar said. He was talking to himself because Malik’s eyebrows were all knitted together in concentration while he mouthed over the words. When he got to the end his mouth dropped open and his eyes widened. “What? What is it?”

“I am going to kill him!” Malik screamed at the card. He looked down at the box in his lap, sensed a half-second too late that Kadar would have to open it immediately and tried to slam his elbow against it to keep it on his lap half-a-breath too late. 

Kadar tore it out of his grasp and was up on his feet in a second. He grabbed the neatly-folded edge of the paper to tear it open. “Is it breakable?” he asked. He was going in a circle around the couch to keep out of reach while Malik was still tripping over books to get free. One of the cats yowled in protest but Malik didn’t take the time to reassure him. 

“Give it back!” Malik shouted at him.

“Feels heavy,” Kadar said. He had to tuck it under one arm and pull the paper off with the other while running. He ducked into the dining room and went around the table. He dropped the box and went looking for the flap to open it (another nondescript cardboard box). It was taped shut so he picked it up again. “Is it something naughty?”

“Give it back!” Malik shouted.

Kadar yanked open the silverware drawer in the kitchen, found a knife and cut through the tape before Malik slammed into his side in an attempt to get the box. The two of them fell over and the box slid just out of reach. Kadar twisted onto his belly while Malik tried to grab his shirt and yank him back. He managed to get his hands on the box and pull the top off in the brief seconds before Malik got a hand in his hair with an endless repeat of ‘stop it damn it’. Once the lid of the box was open, the contents spilled out across the floor. Malik shouted another curse as Kadar burst into hysterical laughter. 

“You fucker,” Malik snapped at him. He scuttled forward to grab the obscene purple dildo and the ridiculously oversized bottle of what had to be lube to throw them back in the box and ineffectively try to close the thing like he could contain the secret. “Shut up!” Malik said. He kicked Kadar in the side with his socked foot but he was laughing himself at that point. He collapsed backward on the kitchen floor and laughed until his face was pink. “Oh shit,” he said between sobs of laughter. “What a dick.”

Kadar crept forward on his belly to open the box again and pulled the thing out. It was massive (or else Kadar was woefully inadequate which simply was not the case) and veiny. There were even a couple of fake looking testicles at the base of it. “Yes,” he said. Then he dropped it back into the box and it bounced heavily. “Are you going to use it?”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Help me take this stuff up to my room.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> You are an asshole and I simply do not want to associate with you anymore. What kind of card was that? What were you even thinking? WHAT GOES THROUGH YOUR BRAIN? 
> 
> Also! No, I do not need a dick to keep me company. No, I do not think it counts as a suitable replacement for my best friend. No, you are absolutely not charming. Just no. No, Altair. NO.
> 
> My brother opened that box! He asked me if I was going to use it. Then he asked me if he could have the lube. You’re an asshole. Now he keeps smiling at me when my Mom’s in the room and winking at me. He stopped me in the hallway when I was going to bed to remind me that my bed is squeaky sometimes. You’re an ass.

Altair smiled at the stupid screen. A camera flash took him by surprise to the side and he looked over in time to see Lucy lowering her new camera and giving him a saucy look daring him to say something about it. “What’s that for?”

“Not for you,” she said. Then she got off the couch to go find her laptop. 

Altair looked at Desmond for an explanation but he didn’t even pause playing his game long enough to say he had no idea. He only shrugged and continued on shooting people. “Something’s wrong with your girlfriend.”

\--

> FROM: Lucy S. [coffee4college@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> Happy birthday. This is his face every time he reads your e-mails. Thought you’d like to see it.

Malik was surrounded by dictionaries. They were stacked on either side of his bed (in an attempt to look inconspicuous and not at all out of place) with his other books but the added few feet of space they took up on either side meant he kept stubbing his toe on them. Aquila was sleeping on his lap and Sailor was chasing one of the jingly cat toys across the floor with delight.

Then there was Altair looking at his phone, his face devoid of all pretenses of arrogance and the smile caught on his lips so utterly sincere that it made something in the center of Malik’s body _ache_. 

“Yeah,” he said. 

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> I’m going to be in town for a meeting on Monday I’ll stay three days can I stay at your place?
> 
> As long as I get fake laid
> 
> As always the charmer.

Maria showed up late on Monday with an overnight bag and exhaustion making her face look gray. She thanked him for his hospitality and immediately crashed in his guest room. The next morning (after ten thirty or so) she emerged wearing a silky nightgown thing with her hair hanging free looking extremely inviting. She didn’t smile at him but flop down next to him on the couch and pull her legs up so her body was all but pressed against his. “Are you sexually frustrated, Altair?”

He looked at her (utterly sincere) face and frowned. “Nooooo.”

Maria ran her fingers through his hair, pulled it away from his scalp and let it go again. “I don’t like your haircut. I need food and alcohol. I’ve spent two weeks telling everyone how much I enjoy dating you and answering questions about how big your dick really is.” She was up off the couch again, navigating her way to the kitchen while she talked. 

Altair followed her to point out the available food and alcohol. She made eggs and sausage, toast and hash browns for both of them. He sat at the table and asked her reasonable questions about her movie. 

“So you’re a spy because someone killed your husband?” Altair asked.

“That is a terrible summary of everything I just said to you but yes, in effect. It’s a lovely movie. There’s already talk that it will win Oscars. I wish people cared about more than the awards you can get.” She was so dismissive of great honors attributed to her name. They ate in silence for a few minutes before she leaned back in her chair with one of her feet on the edge of the chair and her fingers daintily hold a triangle of toast up to her mouth to nibble on it. “Why are you helping me?”

“My Grandmother said you protect your own class of people,” Altair said. He finished chewing the sausage and picked up his glass to wash it all down. There was still egg yolk all over his plate but it was his least favorite part of breakfast so he didn’t feel bad about wasting it. 

“So you are not actually bisexual?” Maria asked. “I only ask because I find the idea that you are entirely straight to be almost unbelievable.”

“Yeah, because of all the guys I’ve had sex with.” Altair licked the last remnants of the toast out of the space between his teeth and cheek. “Have you ever had sex with a man?”

“Well, yes. It was expected of me. I didn’t like it very much. I found out later that it was because I’d rather be the one doing the fucking. I don’t want to be a man. I like my body and I’m comfortable being a woman but I find it very enticing to have something pretty and blushing spread out under me. If you are ever in dire need of sex, I would happily fuck your ass for you.” She smiled so sweetly when she said it as if one could just throw out offers like that. 

Altair was still caught on the image of Maria fucking some other attractive girl to pay too much attention to the flicker of pure heat that ran through his body at the offer. He opened his mouth to ask her a question about her preferences, thought better of it and said (instead), “but I’m not actually bisexual. I’m not gay either.”

“So you have never been attracted to a man ever?” she asked. “I thought you were helping me because you were familiar with the exhausting charade involved in pretending to be something you are not. The sheer number of conquests you have managed seems like proof enough that you’re overcompensating.” But she shrugged and dusted her fingers off onto her plate. “It’s nothing I’m worried about. I just did not expect to be wrong.”

“If you’re attracted to women why would you offer to fuck me?” Altair asked.

“Your ass specifically—”

“Yeah I remember I was sitting here. Why would you offer that if you’re not attracted to men?”

Maria put her foot back on the floor and sighed. “You are thinking of sexuality as one or the other, Altair. You’d be surprised to find that it is rarely so rigid. It is our way of thinking that traps us into these boxes and gives us no room to explore. I do prefer women. I find them the most satisfying and when I fantasize, it is women’s bodies that I think of. However, that doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy experimentation. You are doing me a great favor. I have no interest in being fucked by you but I am willing to negotiate other means of mutual satisfaction.” Then she smiled and motioned at him. “Also I think I’d just get off on the idea of it. You’re physically daunting. You’re taller and stronger and obviously very proud of your body. The idea that you might let me bend you over and fuck you is very, _very_ exciting.”

Altair would have told her all the ways he didn’t think it was exciting at all but his dick was hard as iron nails and he thought the lie might be too obvious to even attempt. Instead he cleared his throat. “I have never had anyone say that to me.”

“Of course you haven’t,” Maria said. “You’re Mr. Macho, you’re a tremendous monster made of testosterone. There is an entire world of possibilities that you have been too blind to consider. Now, should we go out or find something to do to amuse ourselves.”

Well Altair was going to go find his bedroom and take care of the insistent pulse of his erection. “Whatever you want,” he said.

Maria’s smile was fully aware of his predicament. “We should allow ourselves to be seen. Tonight we can watch something and drink beer. I need a day free from pretending.” She got up and sashayed her way out of the kitchen, moving her body in such a way that made the short edge of the nightgown shift this way and that but never quite pull up enough to show her panties.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> So I was drinking tonight. Not enough to be worrisome so you don’t need to go off and fire up the old blog. I promise that it was completely responsible levels of beer and pizza. I even had Desmond and Lucy over for a little while. I thought that Lucy would try to kill Maria but they tolerated one another pretty well for a while. And then they had to leave because Lucy works and Maria was drinking and then that turned into her talking about the stupid things people have put in their vaginas. 
> 
> That was an interesting conversation. 
> 
> But the point is that beer bottles are not the same as dicks. Then we ended up watching these videos where people were sticking this unimaginable stuff up their asses. This one man was fucking a traffic cone. I wasn’t even turned on because it was horrifying, Sass. Maria starts asking me if I’ve ever had anal sex and that’s a dumb question. Of course I have. She wasn’t shocked and appalled about how women like that sort of thing which is good because I am tired of that conversation. She is telling me about this guy she slept with and how gross it was for her and how she still thinks about it. It was something about how she thought it was the worst thing that ever happened to her because she cried for days after she had sex with him and was sure that she was going to hell and some other stuff. 
> 
> I’ve been a little drinking and the whole time I’m listening to her I was thinking about this—I didn’t say it to her because I don’t know her and I haven’t even told anyone I do know but it’s stuck in my head now and, whatever. Here goes.
> 
> So a couple of years ago I had sex with this guy. Pizza sauce guy, actually. He was at this prom that I was at and we were arguing about societal expectations and something about gay rights and I don’t remember all of it. I mean obviously I’ve had sex with everyone so I’m no stranger to finding people attractive and it’s pretty infrequent that I want someone I can’t actually have. But this guy wasn’t like a model or anything. He was just some guy and I remember really wanting to hit him and really wanting to listen to him talk at the same time. We went to get pizza and I don’t even know when I decided we should have sex but we were both drunk even before I got more liquor and condoms and whatever. I was pretty damn drunk so my recall is full of holes. 
> 
> I remember waking up with my face pressed against his back. I remember the smell of pizza sauce stuck on my arms and how it had dried like glue on my chest. I remember how dark his hair was because it was in my face and the realization that I’d fucked him. I didn’t even know the guy but that’s not a big deal I do that a lot. I’ve woken up next to a lot of people that I didn’t really know but none of them were really an event. 
> 
> But this guy. I can’t—I cannot describe the feeling I had when I woke up naked and sticky with my arm around this guy. I didn’t even look at his face, I didn’t even take a minute to make sure he was okay or breathing because it felt like my head was going to explode. I grabbed everything that looked like mine and ran out into the hallway naked. I got dressed in the stairwell with my heart beating through my chest. My hands were shaking so hard I couldn’t button my shirt. 
> 
> I have no idea what happened to him. 
> 
> I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t afraid that someone would find out that maybe I did want to kiss that boy in eighth grade that smelled like blueberry pop tarts and liked Charmander the best out of all of the pokemon. But it was just a thought and even just that thought got the kid beat up. 
> 
> And I couldn’t deal with it. I couldn’t handle the idea that I’d done it. That I’d forgotten how I convinced myself that I’d outgrown it and there it was, there I was, covered in pizza sauce and running away from some guy with a big mouth that talked like he knew everything. Fuck, my heart is pounding thinking about it. I convinced myself it didn’t happen. Nothing is true if I don’t believe in it. So it didn’t happen, Sass. That never happened. I was never there. I was never that person. But it’s there in my head, it’s a shadow that follows me around. It’s a nagging reminder that I’m not the thing I pretend to be. It’s the final proof that I am the worthless, sissy baby that my cousins have told me all this time I am. I can’t run fast enough to get away from it. I can’t pretend hard enough that it’s not real. Everything I’ve done since I walked out of that hotel has been trying so fucking hard to undo it. To prove to myself that I am NOT that person. 
> 
> It’s not real if I say it’s not real. It didn’t happen if I say it didn’t.
> 
> But it is real. It happened. I did that. 
> 
> His name was Malik. He ruined my life.

Kadar found Malik sitting outside after dark. He found him sniffling in the dim gray blackness of before-dawn. There was no evidence around him about what had happened. So he sat on the seat next to him and cleared his throat to announce his intention to speak. “Mom’s in the shower.”

Malik sniffled again and swallowed. He didn’t look at Kadar but tip his head slightly in his direction. His voice wasn’t strong but a shattered eggshell when he said, “he remembers me. The me in that hotel room. The one that ruined his life.” 

Oh. Well. Kadar nodded. “Well, fair’s fair right?”

Malik tried to laugh but it sounded a lot like crying. He did look at Kadar then. He wiped his face with the back of his hand. “Yeah. Fair’s fair.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love you :D


	46. Chapter 46

> #### 
> 
> Document1 – Word
> 
> Please explain to me how he ruined your life because you seem to be doing just fine thus far. Aside from the fact that you ran away from this event and fell straight into a life of excess, whored your way through Europe (possibly twice) and then California before discovering some sense of purpose in destroying your family to avenge your cousin, I really cannot see how your life has been altered in any way. I certainly can’t see how it’s been altered negatively.
> 
> Let’s talk about the lives that you have ruined. Let us talk about how you walked out on that man—who, by the way was seventeen at the time—and left him there to wake up confused, hungover and embarrassed by the _manager_ of the fucking hotel. We should talk about how he had spent almost all of his life grappling with the fact that he’s gay and then YOU OF ALL PEOPLE happened along and broke his resolve against being homosexual. Because MALIK WAS PERFECTLY HAPPY TO KEEP UP THE CHARADE INDEFINITELY. But that wasn’t meant to be because one dick up the ass and all of a sudden Malik couldn’t even convince himself that he wanted to care about his religion or his family or common decency. He whored his way through college and lied to his Mother and gave up what LITTLE SELF ESTEEM he’d ever managed to amass because at least there was some relief from the feeling of UTTER WORTHLESSNESS whenever he was having sex with handsome strangers. Then he decided that someone should teach you all about how not to be a dick but that wasn’t supposed to go anywhere.
> 
> Imagine that you fuckhead whining bitch. The Sett was supposed to fizzle out and die in a few months. It was supposed to exhaust the self-hatred and guilt that festered inside of MALIK WHO RUINED YOUR LIFE and it wasn’t supposed to get found and it sure as hell wasn’t supposed to be found by you. You, Altair, were supposed to be a nobody dickface that didn’t give a shit about anyone but went about acting like a spoiled rich asshole for eternity. There wasn’t supposed to be anything redeeming in your behavior! There wasn’t supposed to be anything worthwhile in you at all. You were a safe and easy target for hatred. 
> 
> Because you ruined _my life_ you prick. You ruined _everything_. 
> 
> So fuck off. There’s nothing wrong with your life that getting the fuck over yourself wouldn’t fix.
> 
> | 

Kadar looked up from the computer to screen to where Malik had dropped down to sit on his bed and subsequently fallen backward. Aquila was toying with the long tips of his hair and Sailor was kneading Malik’s stomach while Malik scratched the back of his neck with his fingers. “Well,” Kadar said. “As long as you plan to send none of that to him I think it’s great.”

Malik tipped his head to look at him. From the dark look around his eyes (and the otherwise gray exhaustion making his body seem heavy and floppy at the same time) he clearly hadn’t slept well. His lips pressed together and then he rolled onto his side. The cats fell into the rumpled covers of his bed and meowed in outrage before settling on climbing on his back for retribution. “I thought I’d send him that exactly. Maybe something that says, ‘fuck you, you overdramatic piece of shit’. Maybe something like, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way, because that makes everything else awkward as fuck’.”

“Maybe what you should say is, ‘there is nobody else on the planet that understand what you feel about this as well as I do’. Maybe ask him what’s ruined about his life just because he likes dick. Maybe do something worthwhile and helpful for this man who you have been lying to for months now. For fuck’s sake, Malik. Even if he is being overly dramatic, you have had _years_ to work through your shit about this exact same prom night. If anyone should want to spare someone that level of awful it should be you. Empathy, Malik. It’s one of those things that you’re really bad at but luckily this time you have a first-hand experience.”

Malik frowned at him. Kadar frowned back at him as he hit the ctrl-A and then delete buttons to get rid of the entire draft. Then he got up and motioned for the cats. Aquila was overly attached to Malik because Malik kept giving him fun toys but Sailor had spent several months of his life cuddling with Kadar so he followed after him happily. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Is your life ruined because you’re bisexual or because you are still in denial about it? I feel like to respond to this appropriately I need to understand what about your life has been ruined.

Lucy was still wearing a bathrobe at ten-thirty in the morning when Altair showed up to ask her opinion about what shirt he should wear to this stupid interview he had at some grocery store a few cities away. She was half-asleep with her hair hanging around her face and a cup of coffee nestled into her hand while he stood there shaking the second shirt out to put it on. Her fingers were plucking at the first shirt. “She offered to peg you?” 

“Is that what it’s called?” Altair asked. He fought with the collar of the dumb shirt for a minute before lining up the bottom of the shirt so he could start buttoning it. It was ever so slightly tighter on his shoulders and arms than he remembered it being the last time he put it on. 

“That’s bold,” Lucy said. She stopped toying with the cuffs of the first shirt and looked up at him buttoning the second one. “Are you purposefully trying to find a shirt that doesn’t look like it cost a hundred dollars? Because I think that one is stopped fitting you about the time you started going to the gym.” 

“I was looking for older shirts because I’m not supposed to use my wealth or social power to get a job.” Altair didn’t want a job. He thought the whole idea was stupid. He had no interest in having a job at all and imagined that he’d learn nothing from the experience. When he finished buttoning the shirt he was wearing he tucked it into his pants and spread his arms to wait for her opinion.

“Okay but what kind of lesbian offers to peg her fake boyfriend? This is what I’m asking. And this soon? I’ve been dating Desmond for months and I haven’t even asked him if he’d be interested in that.” She set her coffee cup down and stood up to tug at Altair’s sleeves. When her pinching and pulling did nothing at all but shift the fabric that was squeezing his arms as tight as possible she stopped trying to adjust it and settled for squeezing his arms. “You really have gotten bigger.”

“I just needed to know which shirt makes me look more employable,” Altair said. They were close enough that he could see down the front of her bathrobe (but he tried not to look) and she could smack him on the jaw with the tips of her fingers in an affectionate way before she turned and went back to her chair. 

“Keep the shirt you have on. Both of them fit poorly and neither of them are any good. So keep that one since you’re already wearing it.” She picked up her cup again. “Are you going to do it?”

Altair grabbed the first shirt off the table with a sigh. “I shouldn’t have told you.”

“Probably not,” Lucy said. “See but if you do it, you can sell it to Desmond as a good idea and I won’t have to expend so much effort to get him to try it.” She nodded with a sly smile spreading across her face nearly in time with the sound of the bedroom door opening down the hallway.

Altair laughed. He was leaning forward toward Lucy with his hand fisted in the shirt he wasn’t wearing and said (confidentially), “You have to sell this one yourself, Lucy. I wouldn’t put my cousin in that kind of danger.”

She hit him on the shoulder. “What danger?”

“Don’t even try to tell me that once you get a taste of that sort of power you’d ever be satisfied letting anyone else top.” He threw the shirt over his head and tried not to laugh when Desmond shuffled into the kitchen with a yawn and a single-minded quest for coffee. 

Lucy smiled at him, “your mistake is thinking that anyone else ever got to top.” Then she waved a hand at him. “Go. Be interviewed. Good luck getting the job.”

\--

horse: @sass-badger, I realize you have placed a ban on recommendations about fanfiction but I thought this one was too good to pass up tinyurl… (3h ago)

Sass-Badger: @horse, well, it’s nice that someone told me that @MariaThorpe and I were having fist fights at nightclubs. (3h ago)

MariaThorpe: @Sass-Badger, do not worry too much about it. The media is incapable of understanding that there is more than one sort of relationship. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @MariaThrope, @Sass-Badger, if you guys are going to fight, can you do it while wearing white shirts in the rain? (2h ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, you’re truly a prize (2h ago)

Kadar wasn’t getting involved at all. He was too busy not being involved to care about the dumb article on the tabloid website that said Sass was beating up Maria over ownership of Altair. He was hanging out with his friend, eating junk food in the basement while he played games his Mother would never (ever) have approved of.

He was seventeen now and that was old enough to make educated choices about first person shooter games that featured massive blood splatters. Kadar was eating Cheetos and drinking cola while he sprawled out in the old leather reclining couch in the basement and his friend was letting out a string of curse words that seemed excessive but appropriate. The sound of the doorbell interrupted the general rant so Derek grumbled as he got up and went up to answer the door. 

Kadar licked the cheese off his fingers and read through the messages on his phone while he wanted for Derek to return. He expect it to have been a mailman or one of those kids that showed up and asked to mow the lawn for you but instead Derek came down with Sara following after him. She was still so damn pretty that it was hard to look right at her but her belly was swelling outward. The sight of her reminded him of the whole embarrassing fiasco of his first failed attempt at getting laid. He was angry-and-embarrassed every time he saw her. (Viciously pleased about her unfortunate luck as well.) 

“Hi,” she said to him. “Kadar! I didn’t know you were back in town. How is your brother?”

“Fine,” Kadar said. 

Derek looked nervously at him and then at Sara and made a face like a flinch before coming around to sit in his seat again. “You can sit anywhere,” Derek said. Then to Kadar he said, “sorry man, I thought she wasn’t coming over until later.” (Really, as Kadar wasn’t aware she was coming over at all.)

There was nowhere else to sit. While Kadar was perfectly pleased to let Sara sit on the floor there was that part of him that was intensely (insistently) aware that his Mother would never stop fussing at him if he did. So he huffed a sigh and slid off his side of the couch to make space for her. Sara thanked him and sat. Kadar sat on the floor to play. 

“Are you two on the same side?” Sara asked.

“Yes,” Derek answered. Then they lapsed into silence while they played. No more cursing or taunts but a dreary, elongated kind of nothing. Derek missed a good shot and Kadar was killed by enemy fire. So he set the controller in his lap and took a minute to try to convince himself not to overreact to something. He settled on twisting around to look at his friend. 

“I’m going to go,” he said. He handed Derek the controller and got back to his feet. He denied the few attempts to get him to stay and grabbed his book bag he kept with him whenever he left home. “See you later.” He was all the way out of the house before Sara caught him. It wasn’t that he hadn’t heard her footsteps following him but that he’d been ignore them this whole time.

“Hey,” Sara said when she caught him by the hand. “I didn’t mean to—”

“You didn’t,” Kadar said. He had his hands in his pockets, mindful to look at her face or the space around her body because she was still too beautiful to think around. 

“Oh,” Sara said. “Are we good, Kadar? I know you’re friends with Derek and he’s a great guy, I think we’re going to start dating—I just hope we’re good.” 

He laughed then. Not looking at her was easy when he could just think about she’d gone off and let everyone believe it was his idea to take her clothes off. He hadn’t ever put a lot of stock into the notion of poisonous people before but the way she tipped her head and watched his face with perfect guileless innocence made him question that assertion. She was walking temptation, existing in a state of suspended perfection. Because she was five-six months pregnant and he thought he’d probably still do anything she asked just for the chance to feel her body against his again. That wasn’t normal hormones either, because he’d been attracted to and aroused by a variety of women but none of them so strongly or so disastrously as this one. “No,” he said. “Good luck with your baby, Sara.”

“Wait!” she called. Her hand caught his wrist. He didn’t look at her face but at the sidewalk. “Are we ever going to be good?”

“I don’t understand why it’s important to you that we are _good_.” Kadar looked at her. “I don’t understand why it matters _now_. It didn’t matter to you when the whole school was talking about how I traded goats for sex and was afraid of my _Mommy_. It didn’t matter to you when your new jock boyfriend was shoving me into lockers and threatening to beat me up. It didn’t matter at all to you as long as _you_ weren’t guilty of anything. If you wanted us to be _good_ with each other maybe you should have had the common decency to say ‘oh it was my idea too. Oh I wanted to sleep with him’. But you didn’t because you didn’t want people to think you were capable of having sex or because I was an embarrassment—I don’t know.”

“You wouldn’t understand, everyone expects—”

“I _wouldn’t_ understand?” Kadar interrupted. “You’re right. I don’t understand what it’s like to be a girl. I don’t understand the pressure that you’re under. But don’t think that just because you have a vagina and I have a penis that I’m suddenly incapable of understanding social injustice. We,” he said motioning back and forth between them, “are not _good_. We will not be good. Accept and move on. Preferably away from Derek because _unlike you_ he’s actually a good person.” Then he pulled his hand out of her lax grip and walked away. She didn’t follow him again.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Sorry about the late reply. I was doing job interviews for two days and then the modelling thing was yesterday. I didn’t know how to respond.
> 
> I’m a failure. That’s how my life is ruined. How hard is it to just find women attractive? I couldn’t even do that. I had to find this one random guy so irresistible that I gave up all of my efforts to keep pretending I would never do such a thing. I’m sure you’re disappointed in how I’m choosing to look at this but there is nothing liberating in having no control over your own decisions. I don’t want to find men attractive. I don’t want to want them. It’s there. It’s always hanging there in the back of my head. I have no idea how to talk to another man or how to interact with one without something in my head going, ‘should you have said that? Was that appropriate? Does he think you want to fuck him now? Do you want to fuck him? Do you like him because he’s a decent guy and he doesn’t talk about sports for hours? Do you like him because he’s got a cute smile and you want to see him naked later?’ 
> 
> So someone calls you gay and in the limited scope of your neighborhood/social group other people repeat it and it’s a terrible rumor because it’s not true (or whatever). Being gay isn’t a bad thing but being called something you’re not is. So imagine that feeling of having people talking about you behind your back and expand it to cover the globe so that perfect strangers are eying you and sharing comments on how you could have better lived your life. It’s like fucking Maria Thorpe having a fake boyfriend so she can be something besides ‘the lesbian actress’. 
> 
> I just want to stop being afraid. It hasn’t stopped since I woke up in that hotel room. I just want it to stop.  
> 

Malik was not hungry but his Mother appeared outside while he was pulling weeds with a sandwich and a glass of water. There was a pile of chips next to the sandwich on the plate which meant that she absolutely would not be deterred from her mission. The Al-Sayf household did not keep chips on hand. Those chips were a purposeful enticement for him to eat against his will. He dropped the handful of little green weeds that were growing out of the backyard flowerbed into the pile and sat back on his knees. He wiped his hand on the towel across his lap and sighed.

“You know I will not leave,” Mother said. She set the plate on the old table and sat in one of the chairs next to it. “Come. Eat.”

His primary mistake had probably been telling Kadar that he used to starve himself as punishment. Kadar most likely hadn’t told their Mother outright. Malik got up to his feet and went over to hide in the shade of the house and look at the sandwich. The idea of eating it was nauseating. The notion churned over in his gut like a great fist swishing liquid heat that built up into his throat. 

“You can eat this sandwich or you can tell me what you feel you have done that is so wrong you do not deserve to eat it,” Mother said. “The first is a poor bandage, the second would be more healing.”

Malik said nothing but picked up the sandwich and took a bite of it. He chewed it while she watched and took a drink of the water she’d brought to wash it down. It set like bricks in his gut with a splash of sickening heat rolling all around his gut and chest. She looked down at the sandwich on his plate and then at him. “Should I expect to be watched while I eat from now on?”

“You forget who you are talking to,” she said. The gentle tone of her words was no match for the certainty of the respect she was owed. Her frown didn’t lessen until he inclined his head and apologized to her. “Tell me something you are proud of, Malik. It must be something about yourself or something you have done.”

Malik took another bite of the sandwich to bridge the space between her demand and his inevitable failure to answer. There were many things that he had done that were a cause of pride for him. Malik wasn’t short on pride. “Regardless of how difficult, painful, pointless or harmful it is for me to maintain the same stupid morals, beliefs or standards, I don’t waver. I am aware of my own shortcomings and my own hypocrisy and I do not deny them. But I also do not lower my standards even to myself. I am no—I do not think I am worthless or there is nothing to like about me. I am just all the time aware of my own failings as anyone should be. We have a responsibility to one another as humans to do our best. I haven’t been doing my best. I have been lazy and selfish and cruel at times.”

There was no shock on Mother’s face. Instead she said, “what is the worst that you have done?”

There was a lot of worst he’d done. Malik ate a chip. “Uh, I slept with so many people at school that I got put on a review blog for sexual partners and it said I was good at sex but shallow.” He picked up another chip and investigated it for strange spots rather than look at her face. “They weren’t wrong.”

Mother made a noise in the base of her throat that conveyed her disappointment at hearing that information. “Are you going to continue to behave in that manner?”

“I don’t think I have that option anymore.” That wasn’t a satisfying answer and Malik didn’t even have to look at his Mother’s face to know she disapproved of his poor attempt at deflecting. He licked his lips again and sat back in the unstable old chair. “No. I am not going to continue that behavior. I made a resolution to stop behaving that way at the beginning of the year. The fact that I don’t actually want to be looked at now helps make that resolution simpler.”

“Make a resolution to remember to eat. You are recovering from a significant trauma. You may feel well now but you will derail your recovery by refusing to eat because you are unhappy with your current situation. You will like being sent back to the hospital even less than what troubles you now.” Then she got up again. “Thank you for weeding the flower beds.” She ran her hand across his shoulder as she went back in the house. 

\--

> FROM: Lucy S. [coffee4college@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I am sending you this photograph of the idiot’s first day of work because he forgot he had to get up and go to work, was running late and made sure I understood it was imperative that I send this photograph to you to prove that it happened. He didn’t tell me it was a bet and I was supposed to make sure I mentioned that too. (But honestly, these ideas are clearly not his own.) I’m not sure what you’re attempting to prove to him with this whole thing but I’ve got a wager going on with Desmond about whether or not he’ll be able to maintain this job for longer than six days.  
> 

Desmond hadn’t honestly been looking at becoming gainfully employed again (any time soon) because he had found that having so much free time allowed him to do a variety of useful things. He had taken up volunteering at various organizations that dealt with homeless kids. He had taken up exercising and cooking (things other than cup ramen) and took the time to explore art of various kinds. 

Then Altair burst into his home after seven in the evening (while Lucy was out with her friends and had decided she didn’t want him to go again) wearing a maroon shirt and carrying a visor in one fist. He stomped (didn’t walk) over toward him after slamming the door and threw his arms out wide to either side in a universal expression of being fucking exasperated at everything. “So my boss is a dick that takes sandwiches entirely too seriously. One of my coworkers is actually so stupid that she shouldn’t have passed kindergarten much less be allowed to touch money. One of the guys, I’m pretty sure, purposefully pees on the floor of the bathroom and the other one wouldn’t stop touching me and calling me ‘honey-bear’.”

“When do you work again?”

“Tomorrow,” Altair said. He threw himself on the couch, rested for a half second, plucked at the shirt he was wearing and then sat up, grabbed it by the back of the collar and pulled it up over his head and threw it on the pineapple by the wall. He flopped back again (shirtless) and sighed like deflating. “Jobs are less of a pain in the ass if you actually like what you’re doing right?”

Well, that depended on a number of factors. “Yes,” Desmond said. “As a general rule if you enjoy what you’re doing it is easier to do it and be glad about it. Are you part time or full time?”

“I’m going to buy the stupid business, fire everyone, burn it to the ground and rebuild one in its place that’s actual functional and staffed with non-morons that know how to do their job properly.” Altair groaned and rubbed his face with both hands before rocking back up to sitting upright. “Part time. I work three days a week? I don’t know. The manager said a lot of things. I only have a partial schedule right now. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“Out.”

“Watch out, Desmond. I hear she wants to fuck you in the ass.” Then Altair threw the visor at the pineapple too. He slouched back into the couch again after that inspiring statement and rubbed at the tattoo on his hand with his thumb. There was a wide leather bracelet covering the dates on his left wrist. “I’m exhausted.”

“Sleep,” Desmond said. 

“Yeah,” Altair said. Then he dragged himself upright again. He shuffled over to pick up his work shirt and the visor. “I’m serious about Lucy though.”

“I heard similar things about Maria,” Desmond said. “How about you try it for both of us and tell me how it works out?” Not because he was necessarily adamantly opposed to the idea but because it simply wasn’t anything he was interested in attempting. The fact that Lucy wanted to meant that he would probably agree to it eventually didn’t excite him. But the idea of teasing Altair about it did.

“Sure. I’ll just let the furious lesbian do whatever she wants with my ass. There’s no way that could end poorly.” Altair slapped him on the back of the head on his way out. “Talk to you later.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> The date is set!
> 
> I’d be excited but I have no idea what date
> 
>    
>  August 23
> 
> I’m going to meet the Auditores
> 
> In Italy at the Auditore Villa.
> 
> What?
> 
> which Auditores?
> 
> As I understand it, they will all be there. 
> 
> I am not as excited to meet the extraneous family members as I am to meet Claudia who seems very intelligent and Ezio who seems lovably dumb.
> 
> Well good luck with Ezio
> 
> Tell me if it’s as good as you imagine
> 
> I expected you to tell me to stay away from your friend.
> 
> I expected you to be smart enough to figure that out on your own
> 
> I also expect that you’ll do whatever you want regardless
> 
> So I decided not to bother
> 
> Well. Good.

Kadar watched Malik because his brother was an idiot prone to bouts of prolonged stupidity cleverly hidden in plain sight where everyone could see but not understand. He had mentioned to Mother that Malik hadn’t eaten in over thirty hours and her response had been to pointedly slap plates down in front of Malik at appropriate intervals.

Malik responded by glaring at Kadar every time he had the chance. He also took up running in the afternoons when the sun was at the highest point and the weather was the most unbearable. Malik ran until his shirt was filthy with sweat and he was dragging his body inside the house on the verge of collapse. 

“Maybe if you die you won’t have to worry about how you ruined his life,” Kadar remarked from the couch. He didn’t look up from the book he was reading when he said it. He didn’t stop petting Sailor even as the cat perked up his head to see where Malik was going and if treats were likely to follow him around. Aquila ran out from under the couch to attack Malik’s pants leg and climbed up them to hang off his leg while Malik walked toward the stairs.

“Didn’t you have friends? Weren’t you supposed to be spending the rest of your summer not giving a shit about me?” Malik demanded. He twisted around to grab the kitten and dropped Aquila on his shoulder where the kitten could hang on easier. Malik didn’t stop to hear the response but continue on his way up to the shower.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Congratulations on the job. Lucy sent me the photograph. Should you have free time again (it is amazing how little time you have after you become employed) I’d like to mention that the last Twilight book is coming out soon. We can play Scrabble and read it.

Altair’s second boss was a woman named Cynthia who made disapproving noises whenever someone had the misfortune of doing something she disapproved of in her presence. Altair was terrible at making sandwiches. The first boss (a man named Randy) had despaired over his inability to combine meat, cheese and pickles in the correct order in a timely fashion and then wrap that into a sheet of paper properly. 

“We’ll try you on the register,” is what Randy said at the end of his second day.

But Cynthia didn’t like the idea of him—tall, tattooed and generally male—on her front line because she was in the hall outside of her office complaining about how he’d managed to get put on the register. She stood at his side while he handed out change and clucked her tongue.

“You need to make sure you’re entering the amount you’re given on the screen,” Cynthia said. “Don’t round up and assume you can figure out the difference. You’re responsible for balancing your drawer at the end of your shift.”

Altair wanted to tell her that he’d learned out to add and subtract in first grade and thought that maybe he shouldn’t. 

“Smile,” she said. “Greet the customers.” Every time she walked past him. “If you don’t have a line you should be cleaning the tables.” 

Altair hated wiping the tables. He hated working at the stupid store. He hated everything about the awful place but he didn’t hate anything as much as he hated Cynthia standing at his side. “You gave her fifty six cents. Why did you give her fifty six cents? How did you figure out she needed fifty six cents?”

“Math,” Altair said. 

Oh and Cynthia made that sound in her throat, that clucking disapproval just seconds before, “I need you to remember that this is a workplace and you are expected to be respectful.” (There was nothing disrespectful about his answer at all.) “I asked you how you got that change because you did not enter the correct amount on the screen. When I count your drawer at the end of the day it has to be exactly correct.”

Altair was going to call Giovanni and ask him about those connections he didn’t have with the mob. Instead he smiled (as convincingly as he could manage) and said, “right. Sorry. I’ll do it right now.” Because telling her to fuck off was probably not an option.

\--

> ### July 24, 2008: Throwback Thursdays: Little Tommy has really Grown
> 
> Thankfully, most of us have forgotten the horror that was Family Blends. Despite the fact that this entire show is best left in the past, I present to you this rare behind the scenes photograph of my dear friend, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad eating what appears to be a hamburger with donuts in place of the buns. One hopes his diet has improved in quality since those days. 
> 
> [Photograph of Altair sitting at a table with a plate half-filled with a variety of half-eaten food. There are a spread of unreadable papers in front of him, he is frowning at the table while holding the donut hamburger in his hand and part of the woman standing next to him is visible in the photograph but not her face.]
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Throwback Thursdays, I: put down the donut and eat a salad, I: Altair cannot act, W: food_  
> 

“Malik?” The voice was instantly recognizable. Malik didn’t even have to look up to see Alex (with his usual summer tan all bronze and glowing) smiling at him. He had changed in the time since Malik had seen him last. His body had gotten fuller in a way that was not immediately identifiable as muscle or just extra weight. His eyes lingered on the pinned up left sleeve of Malik’s jacket for a moment too long before looking back at his face. “How have you been?” And then realizing how stupid that question was, “what happened?”

Malik had come to the library to get away from people with well-meaning questions. (And to pick up a few books to read since he no longer had Sofia to supply him with novels on a regular basis.) The librarian who had been working the front desk since Malik was thirteen had nearly burst into tears when he saw her earlier that morning. He had endured her hug with grace and assured her that he was recovering well and all was good. He simply didn’t have the energy to deal with it a second time. “Car accident.” 

Alex invited himself to sit down opposite him with a large book balanced in his lap and a nostalgia smile on his face. “But how have you been? Are you dating anyone? How’s school?”

One of the ladies that worked in the library looked up from the desk to glare at the two of them. She didn’t tap the sign that asked people to please be quiet but she side-eyed it hard enough that it was basically the same thing. Alex ducked his head in apology even as Malik resigned himself to having to think of a way out of talking to him for any longer than necessary. 

“Hey,” Alex said. “I’m in town until the end of August. I’ll give you my number if you want to meet for a drink sometime and catch up.” Then he scribbled his number down on a slip of toss-away paper and handed it to Malik. “It was really great seeing you.” 

“Yeah,” Malik said.

“Call me,” Alex repeated before he left. 

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> My sister has hired the artist.
> 
> She told me that I should not tell you where or when.
> 
> However, she recently told several of her friends that I have a small penis and can’t last for longer than three minutes. I feel no generosity towards her.
> 
> Horse will be at the villa in August on the twenty third.
> 
> I heard it’s rude to invite yourself to the villa
> 
> Consider this a formal invitation, Altair.

Altair slept until noon on his day off. He only woke up because his bladder was more insistent than his desire to keep sleeping. While he hadn’t expected to like his temporary (menial) job, he hadn’t expected to be hired full-time at a fast food place with a clucking manager that disapproved of him. While his decision to leave the city to look for work was the most logical one he could have made, the additional commute to his low-paying, aggravating, ultimately worthless job was infuriating after a week and a half. 

His first paycheck was so laughable he nearly ripped it into pieces in front of the manager, laughed in her face and flipped her off. Instead he had thanked her and tucked it away in his wallet. (Said wallet costing more than he made in his first check.) 

By the time he was awake enough to read through his E-mails and other communications he was tired enough to sleep again. The invitation to play Scrabble was a happy change from the usual. He had gotten used to having to ask Sass to play and the reverse was an interesting (and encouraging) change. 

\--

> ### Chat While you Play!
> 
> Son-of-no-One: I hate having a job  
>  Son-of-no-One: how long do I have to maintain this?  
>  Sass: why do you hate it?  
>  Son-of-no-One: so I accept that I do not understand how people live. I accept that I’ve never had to work as hard a single day in my life as the people that work in that hellhole have to work every single day. I know that what you’re asking me probably has more to do with people like Debra who is thirty one, working this fucking shitty job while trying to support two kids and less to do with what I’m about to say. I just need you to understand that I get what you’re trying to prove here. I’ve got more money than these people can dream of. I understand and accept that I am sincerely incapable of understanding their plight.  
>  Son-of-no-One: but the managers are stupid  
>  Son-of-no-One: the customers are ridiculous  
>  Son-of-no-One: the building is filthy  
>  Son-of-no-One: and nobody seems to realize that they are frequenting a cesspool of potential disease staffed by under-educated fuck heads.  
>  Son-of-no-One: of course most of the people that frequent the place are just as stupid. How hard is it to read? I understand that you want a cheeseburger with cheese. Don’t tell me six times. Also I CAN COUNT.  
>  Son-of-no-One: I was learning algebra when I was eight years old you ignorant, small-minded used up hag! I can make change without having to use the register like a calculator because I am legitimately a GENIUS.  
>  Son-of-no-One: and sure, yes I WILL MAKE SURE YOUR FRIES ARE FRESH FROM THE GOD DAMNED OIL. I WILL SUBMERGE YOUR FACE INTO THE BOILING OIL SO YOU WILL TASTE THE FRESHNESS AS YOUR FLESH BOILS OFF.  
>  Sass: I worked in fast food for two and a half years.  
>  Son-of-no-One: well you’re a saint  
>  Son-of-no-One: when this month’s up, I’m going to show up wearing a suit flanked by a bevy of beautiful women, throw a couple fistfuls of magazines with my face splashed across them at the managers and tell them all to fuck off, I quit.  
>  Sass: …are you going to record it too?  
>  Son-of-no-One: yes  
>  Son-of-no-One: I hate the manager.  
>  Son-of-no-One: how are you?  
>  Sass: I’ve taken up jogging.  
>  Son-of-no-One: well that’s a good sign, right? You’re feeling well enough to take up jogging.  
>  Son-of-no-One: are you still wearing the jacket everywhere?  
>  Sass: yeah  
>  Son-of-no-One: still not interested in sex?  
>  Sass: you know that Leonardo has left. You can stop asking.  
>  Son-of-no-One: two things about that: 1. I refuse to believe that Leonardo is the only person that would have sex with you despite what you believe. 2. I was actually leading into asking you if you’ve used your birthday present yet.  
>  Sass: I have. I use it every night before I go to sleep. It’s very relaxing.  
>  Son-of-no-One: that’s not fair  
>  Son-of-no-One: I’m talking about the dildo  
>  Son-of-no-One: I had a whole moment where I stopped breathing and now my dick is hard as diamonds and you’re an asshole because you’re talking about the dictionaries  
>  Sass: I am  
>  Sass: how about we kill that boner of yours. Tell me about Malik.  
>  Son-of-no-One: at this point I think only the ghost of my grandmother could kill this boner.  
>  Son-of-no-One: I told you everything about pizza sauce guy.  
>  Son-of-no-One: what else do you want to know  
>  Sass: I want to know if you want to work on accepting that you’re bisexual and being okay with it or if you want to figure out how to continue to ignore this  
>  Son-of-no-One: I want to stop being scared of being found out.  
>  Son-of-no-One: I want to stop worrying about how to talk to guys.  
>  Son-of-no-One: more importantly, at this moment I want to jerk off. So put this conversation on pause.  
>  Sass: are you going to record that too?  
>  Son-of-no-One: well I would if I thought you’d like it  
>  Son-of-no-One: give me a minute, I’ll be back

Kadar watched Malik’s face go from faintly amused to silently embarrassed to a rather telling shade of red. Mother had decided they should all co-exist in the living room but she hadn’t put restrictions on what they should be doing at the time. Kadar was doing his summer reading (or re-reading since he had a list of possible essay prompts for his English class and no idea how to answer them from his first read through), Mother was flipping idly through magazines and Malik was sitting on the couch by himself with his computer balanced in his lap. “What wrong?” Kadar asked (very, very loudly). 

Mother looked up to search around the room for the source of the problem before catching sight of Malik’s guilty looking face with his pink cheeks and his obvious discomfort. She was worried first (not suspicious). “Are you alright?”

“Just tired,” Malik said. Because saying, ‘oops I was talking to my sort-of-boyfriend and he must have said something naughty because now I’ve got an awkward erection’ took too long. He followed up his first lie by glaring at Kadar for ratting him out. “Can I go lay down?” he asked Mother.

She was worried (still) but now suspicious. If she suspected (and she probably did) what Malik’s true problem was she didn’t address it (or how he came to have such a problem in the middle of the living room) but nod her head. Then she turned her attention back to her magazine rather than embarrass Malik further by watching him get up and leave.

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> Your new ad is quite enticing, Altair.
> 
> I’ve received numerous compliments and several sly statements about how I should make sure you understand you belong to me.
> 
> I’ve had to fake interest in your physical body. Normally, I just think of some attractive woman I’ve seen naked and make up lies about our sex lives. This time I thought of how lovely and pink your cheeks and ears get whenever you get aroused very quickly.
> 
> What kinds of lies are you spreading about our sex life?
> 
> Nothing that impugns your fragile masculinity.
> 
> Even if you took me up on my offer I wouldn’t spread that rumor.
> 
> Well thanks for that.
> 
> Can you come to England next weekend? I have a small break.
> 
> I’d have to check my schedule. I have a temporary job
> 
> Why?
> 
> Why isn’t important. I’ll try to get a few days to see you

Altair spent his break period hiding in his car because the thought of spending more time than necessary inside of the awful building threatened to break his resolve to see this miserable experiment to its end. He came back inside at exactly the correct time and went to clock in at the register. 

Cynthia appeared out of nowhere to cluck in disapproval. “You’re late. We need you to be here on time every time.” She motioned at the empty dining room as if he were going to be impressed by it and then at the people that were attending to their cleaning chores in the kitchen while they waited for the fresh volley of customers to show up. “Make sure you finish your cleaning assignment. Don’t put it off for the end of your shift because we will not be paying overtime for poor time management skills.”

Altair spent most of the time she was talking daydreaming about suing her for harassment. It was a nice daydream to have. When she was finished (with a cluck of her tongue) he answered with a noncommittal affirmative and went to get the cleaner to wipe down all the metal in the front end. Valerie (the girl that worked the drive-thru window) was cleaning the trays and slapping new paper covers on them. She waited until Cynthia was out of sight and sound before she smiled at Altair. 

“Don’t let her get to you,” Valerie said quietly when Altair was close enough to hear. “Her husband is cheating on her. She used to be a good manager but now she hates every man she sees.”

“How professional of her,” Altair said. He had to crouch to get clean the fridge where they kept the juices and milks for the kid’s meals. “Thanks,” he said after a pause. He looked up at Valerie to see her smile and nod before she retreated back to her corner to take an order.

\--

Sass-Badger: RT: “ShaunRocks1: is this the part where everyone asks @Sass-Badger about the new tattoo? Sass, do you ever get tired of answering questions about @son-of-no-one?” Never. (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: where is this new tattoo though? (1h ago)

Coffee4College: it’s not new but the new ad is the first time it’s been photographed. (32m ago)

Notyourbrother: @sass-badger, well what is it? (27m ago)

Sass-Badger: traditionally black arm bands are a sign of mourning. One would then assume this one is a memorial of some sort. (20m ago)

Sass-Badger: that is all I know. Regardless of how many of you ask for more details, I cannot provide them. (13m ago)

Malik did not go outside (but the urge was there) but slapped his computer shut and went to the dining room. It existed in a perpetual state of uselessness. A clean room where they should but rarely (or else never) ate. The table was shiny from disuse and the framed artwork on the walls chronicled Kadar and his poor career as artists. The best he’d ever managed was the map of the world he had to make as a project for his eight grade geography class.

Kadar did not keep him waiting long but came down the stairs and rounded the corner to the dining room to stand on the opposite side of the table. His two hands and ten fingers were spread out across the top of the table. His face was a grim frown of disapproval that seemed like a slap in the face on top of everything else. “Malik—” Kadar said.

“Shut up,” Malik snapped at him. “Don’t say it. Don’t you dare say anything. Don’t—”

“You can’t just—”

“I said shut up,” Malik snapped. “I didn’t ask for this. I didn’t ask for _that_ and I don’t need it. Who does that? Who—no.” Malik snarled the word. “No.” Was calmer but no less heavy. 

Kadar tried to move around the table toward him and Malik sneered at him. “Maybe it’s not even—”

“It is,” Malik interrupted. Because Altair had been hiding this up his very literal sleeve. Because he’d never mentioned it even in passing. Because it wasn’t a fresh tattoo but one that had only just now been photograph for the first time. Because it was _his_ , it was _Malik’s_ tattoo on Altair’s body and the unfairness of that felt like jagged things stabbing him in the chest. 

Malik’s misfortune was branded onto Altair’s body. Malik’s loss was being carried around by some idiot that didn’t even know he was _in love_ with the _man_ that _ruined his life_. 

“It is,” Kadar agreed. “Malik, you have to—”

“I’m going for a walk,” Malik said. He grabbed his jacket off the chair closest to the door. “I have to go think. I have my phone.”

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> I hate this job
> 
> I’m not going to make it a full month
> 
> I believe Sass just now realized you have a tattoo for her.
> 
> what?
> 
> Someone asked Sass what the new tattoo was for and Sass said it was a mourning/memorial.
> 
> Well is she okay?
> 
> Fuck. They said they were going to airbrush the tattoo off
> 
> I don’t know. I guess.
> 
> Fuck

Altair was stuck at work. His break was over and while Cynthia wasn’t there, he walked back into a line of customers that had Randy (the nicer manager) looking frazzled while he worked the front line shoving food into bags and onto trays to give the impatient looking people. Randy motioned him back over and Altair spent a half-breath trying to figure out if he gave a fuck about Randy and his need for an employee. It was only another hour and a half of work. 

Sass would be fine for an hour and a half.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you about the tattoo. I don’t know if you are disgusted or upset or what about it but I just—I was so angry and upset that I couldn’t do more to help you. I kept trying to figure out how to figure out where you were to go and see you but your brother made sure to mention (more than once) how I had made a promise to you. I had nothing to do with all that bullshit. I went to get that cock tattoo on my hip and I saw the black bands and I—
> 
> Just talk to me. Tell me what’s going on.

Malik was almost as good at denial as he was at brutal honesty. Every part of his body wanted to wallow in denial that he’d walked out of his house with his phone in his pocket and a ragged sensation of something he couldn’t control with absolutely no ulterior motives but to walk it off. Then there was the fact that he hadn’t even made it to the end of the block before he was fishing his phone out of his pocket to call his old-pal Alex who wanted to ‘catch up sometime’ in a way that meant ‘fuck you somewhere anonymous’.

That was what sex was, caught between his brain and his body, Malik didn’t want to _think_ about the ways he’d fucked this whole thing up. He didn’t want to think about the injustice he was continuously committing against Altair and he couldn’t (could _not_ ) think around it. If he’d been back-at-college with Leonardo-close-at-hand he would have shown up on his doorstep looking pathetic asking for dick. But he was _here_ and his options were limited.

Alex was happy enough to come find him after he walked to the nearest shopping mall and it was oh-so-convenient timing that his parents were out-of-town. That was just as well because Malik had one hand fisted in Alex’s sun-streaked hair as he kissed him with all the violence his indecision could muster. He had to give up his hold on Alex’s hair to shove his hands off the buttons of Malik’s shirt. 

“Just fuck me,” Malik said into his pinked-and-wet lips. There should have been shame in those words but he was fresh out of the ability to care. He just wanted to shut up the things knocking around his skull. Liquor (was quicker, wasn’t that the saying) cost too much money. Alex was quick-and-easy and (free) with his eager enough hands easing Malik out of his pants. 

The wall was a blunt stop under his forehead. Alex’s hands on his hips were a slippery reality. Malik rubbed his face against his forearm and squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could manage because he was a terrible-terrible-awful human being. And Alex was panting against the back of his neck while Malik was gritting out, “harder,” because he didn’t want to _think_ about anything. He didn’t want to have the _option_ of thinking. Alex chuckled with his teeth digging into Malik’s right shoulder and his hips jerking forward with an eager slap. 

Again-and-again until there was nothing more pressing or urgent in the world than the rough hands and the hard beat of the body against his.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Please don’t hurt him, Leonardo
> 
> I would make a quip here but your brother informed me you disappeared six hours ago and have refused to answer calls.
> 
> Did you find a nice man to keep you company, Malik?
> 
> Yeah
> 
> Was it worth it?
> 
> Well, it wasn’t as thorough as you are. But the enthusiasm made up for the lack of skill
> 
> Go home. Take your beating with your head up, Malik.
> 
> You deserve it
> 
> Please don’t hurt him, Leonardo.
> 
> I don’t think I need to since you’re so proficient at it.

Kadar wasn’t angry because angry had plateaued a few hours ago. Anger had fed into fury that had mixed up with indignant rage so by the time Malik came creeping in the backyard, Kadar was so _something_ indescribable that his hands were in fists he couldn’t loosen and there were tears in his eyes. He had been waiting (for _hours_ ) for Malik to find his way back and he promised himself (again and again) how he was going to be rational and reasonable and supportive. But the second he saw his brother’s stupid face, the very second he saw him come to a full-stop three feet to the side of him, he couldn’t contain the shaking feeling that had agitated up and down his body ever since his stupid-stupid brother had walked out of the house.

He punched Malik’s chest in the hollows under his shoulders on both sides, used his body to shove him backward and shouted a wordless noise at him. It bled into a series of words that might have (might not have been), “you worthless, stupid, selfish prick! You win, don’t you? You don’t deserve to be happy do you? Do you know what you’re doing? Do you know?”

For a moment, Malik didn’t fight him or push him back. He didn’t argue the words but stand there floppy-and-useless letting Kadar push him backward and doing nothing more exciting than holding onto his wrist with a loose hand. 

“He loves you, you fuck!” Kadar said with tears in his eyes. (When the fuck did that start to matter anyway? When did that become something that _hurt_. When did it begin to matter that much?) “You’re—you’re— _He’s_ stupid for you and you just can’t help it. You just have to keep poking him to see if he’ll finally give up! You’re _ruining_ him.”

That, that _word_ made Malik’s hand tighten and the loose-jointed nothingness of his body tightened all at once into an attack. He shoved Kadar back. “ _I’m_ ruining him? Why the fuck does he matter so much to you anyway? He’s not _your brother_! I _am_.” Malik’s anger was pitch of anger that slid into his words like venom. He was shouting in Arabic now. His face flushed with life that made the uselessness of these many days seem even more extreme in comparison. “I _should matter_ more than him!”

But it wasn’t that simple. It wasn’t that simple at all. It was the same thing as Sara looking him in the face saying, _you wouldn’t understand_ because they were on opposite sides of the same stupid circumstance. Kadar wasn’t incapable of empathy (the way that Malik _was_ ) and he hadn’t given up every moral he’d ever bothered to lecture on for the _whole of his life_. Kadar laughed in Malik’s face the way he wished he could have laughed in Sara’s. The way he wished he could have laughed at the jocks and the bullies that shoved him into things and called him names. He wasn’t _powerless_ against Malik. He wasn’t _at a disadvantage_ here. “You are not my brother,” he said. “My brother would spit in your face. My _brother_ wouldn’t stand here trying to defend this _behavior_! I don’t care about _Altair_ or his precious feelings! I care about you, Malik. Because you’re stupid and you’re drowning and you can’t even see it! You—you—”

“You think I don’t know that?” Malik shouted at him. 

“You must not! You must not,” he said again quieter. It was black-as-night outside, with the neighbors on all sides and Mother somewhere over their heads (trying to sleep). “Because you’re not fighting anymore. You’re not keeping your head above water. You’re toying with Altair because it’s _fun_ for you. You’re using him to forget that _you’re_ miserable and that works _just fine_ until it doesn’t. What he did was inexcusable. What you’re doing is _mean_. He was acting out of ignorance and stupidity but you’re _purposefully_ and _maliciously_ using him.”

Malik rolled his eyes but he didn’t deny the words. “Are you done?”

“I’m not lying for you anymore. I won’t tell him that you’re my sister. I won’t call you a she. I’m done. I will not be part of this. If you had any sense of decency left—you wouldn’t either.”

But Malik let out a sound between his teeth and said, “Then _don’t_. But don’t fall off your high horse either. I _know_ what I’m doing is wrong. Just because you don’t think I’m aware doesn’t mean I’m not. I know I’m lying to him and I know I’ve let it go on too long.”

“So stop it,” Kadar said. “Tell him who you are.”

Malik’s face went cold the way his words were ice in the after-dark summer heat. “No. I’m nothing but the man that ruined his life right now. I tell him and that’s all I’ll ever be. The man that ruined his life and toyed with him for a few years before showing up to humiliate him again.”

“He deserves to know,” Kadar said. 

“What he needs, what he deserves, is someone that can help him. Someone that isn’t dazzled by his money and his charm. Someone that can fight him when he’s laying the blame on anyone but himself. That’s what I was supposed to be. I haven’t been fair to him because I love him. I stopped doing what I set out to do. I’m not going to let him blame me for his life.”

Kadar sighed, rubbed his hands through his hair and felt an exhaustion that dragged him straight down like gravity meant to pull him to the center of the earth. “You have to stop letting it get worse.”

“I started the Sett to hurt him. I wanted to make it worse. I wanted the world to know what he did to me. I wanted anyone in this whole fucking universe to know how I felt when I woke up alone, naked, covered in pizza sauce in a room I didn’t really remember going to. I wanted him to be _humiliated_ and _mocked_ and _belittled_ the way his actions and his words did to me.” Malik’s words were liquid things, full of something hot and damp the way his face was pink and his eyes were bright in the light. He swallowed and looked to the side before he looked back at Kadar. “There is no justice in knowing that out of everyone I’ve ever met, everyone that has ever known this story, the only person that gets _close_ to understanding what I felt is the bastard that did it to me. I know what he feels like. I know how awful it is. That’s what I wanted when I started the Sett. That’s what I wanted to do to him.”

Kadar sighed. “You have to be a better person. You _are_ a better person.”

“He’s a genius,” Malik said. “The first post on the Sett was made the day after prom. It directly mentions the prom. The only reason he hasn’t figured out who I am is that he doesn’t want to know.” Malik sniffled and then looked toward the door. Mother pulled it open and stood there with her hand holding her robe closed and a sleepy annoyance on her face as she looked at them. 

“Perhaps you would like to come inside?” Mother said.

Malik nodded and headed for the door but Kadar stood there another minute with his feet stuck to the ground and his head full of half-finished thoughts. He followed after compulsively, dragged forward by the weight of Mother’s disapproving stare rather than by any desire to go. 

“Would my sons like to tell me why they are shouting in our backyard at one in the morning?” Mother asked. She sat at the table while Malik stood near the door and Kadar leaned his hip against the edge of the counter by the back door and stared at the wall. Her question wouldn’t be denied so it simply hung there waiting for an answer.

Malik relented first (as he often did). “I had sex with someone and Kadar thinks I shouldn’t cheat on people that I’m not actually dating.” The very tone of the words was so dismissive it was insulting to everyone. To Altair who wouldn’t know about it and Leonardo who did and Mother who looked so disappointed and Malik who stood his ground without apology. 

“I just believe you should betray the people that love you,” Kadar said. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” It must have been a miracle because Mother let him go without protest. Malik watched him go without rebuttal. Kadar went through the house with a lack of energy that made every step seem like dragging sacks of stones behind him. He stopped only long enough to pick Sailor up off the stairs before heading to his bed.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I think you’re stupid. But your loyalty and dedication to people that matter to you is a truly commendable trait that you possess. When set against your other failings, the fact that you are willing and unashamed to do whatever you feel is necessary to support the people you love, your arrogance, condescension and selfishness are bearable. I am flattered and I am angry that you have this tattoo. I think they exist in equal measures at this point.
> 
> In chat the other day you said that you’ve told me everything about ‘pizza sauce guy’ that you have to say. You say that you don’t want to be afraid anymore and that you want to know how to interact with people without worrying that you’re giving them the wrong impression. Something has bothered me about this since I read it but I confess that I was distracted by your humorous boner incident. His name was not ‘pizza sauce guy’. His name was Malik. If you’re going to credit him with ruining your life, the very least you could do is remember and use his name when you talk about him. Maybe you should tell someone besides me about it. Someone you trust to understand and not to mock you about it. 
> 
> You can quit your job. I’ll keep up my end of the deal. But if you make a spectacular spectacle out of it (and you will) try to remember the people that you are going to be embarrassing are human. Remember Debra who seems to have made some small dent in your arrogance. Remember that even the boss you hate is a person and despite the lack of respect she has shown you for whatever reason, she deserves some measure of decency. So hire the beautiful women, thrown your net worth in their face and tell them you never have to work another day in your life but be aware when you do these things the effect they will have on the people you are doing them to.

Altair got the mail at the end of the day _after_ he’d sent one asking Sass to not ignore him. He was worried-and-aggravated and stress about the silence that dragged on for thirty-six straight hours. He was agitated by Cynthia who stood at his side clucking her tongue demanding he recount his drawer because of a discrepancy that didn’t exist. He had bit his tongue and his cheeks until his mouth tasted like blood and counted every-single-penny of the drawer (again) in front of her with his voice like a toneless drone and when he reached the end (a perfect match for the print out) he slapped the last penny on the counter and stared at her. 

She was five-foot-one and he was six-foot-one. Her body was rounded at the curves and plump in between. He was straight up and down with marks on his arms from where the cuffs were too tight to fit properly. She wore a tarnished wedding ring like she could undo the damage her stupid husband and done to her and he had a black leather cuff covering up the dates his entire family died. 

There was no goodwill, no charity, no decency left in his body to give her the benefit of the doubt. Altair hated her with every fiber of his being and he carried it from the moment he raised his eyebrow at her like daring her to tell him he was wrong (again) until he was safe-at-home with the e-mail sitting in front of him like a(nother) slap in the face. 

Cynthia had said to him, “you had nickels in your dimes,” like a defense against her own ineptitude when he was proven right (again).

Sass said, ‘treat people with decency.’

But Grandmother had told him (again, and again and _again_ ): ‘leave no survivors.’

\--

> FROM: K [NotYourBrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]
> 
> What happened is upon realizing that Altair got a permanent tattoo on his body in honor of the loss that Sass suffered, some part of Sass’ brain has broken and returned to its default programming. Also, your cousin is kind of a dick. 
> 
> _Desmond wrote_ :  
>  What happened? 

There had been talk (last week) about how Altair was going to quit his job. The plan involved a great deal of showmanship and arrogance. In reality, Altair asked Desmond to go with him and sat in the driver’s seat frowning at the road in front of him with such constant intensity it was amazing he hadn’t developed wrinkles just from the effort. Altair was wearing a suit (a nice suit, a public-functions, pictures-will-be-taken suit) with his work clothes folded up in Desmond’s lap. 

“Desmond,” Altair said but before Desmond could respond or even make a sound like he was interested. “I had sex with a guy.”

That was a surprise to nobody. “Oh?” Desmond said. “Pizza sauce guy?”

“His name was Malik,” Altair said. He frowned all the harder at the road in front of him. “It was only the one guy and only the one time. I don’t remember most of it.”

There was really no lead-in to this conversation that led Desmond toward what his reaction to this news was. On the one hand he wasn’t surprise at all. This was no revelation. On the other hand, Altair clearly wasn’t okay with the fact that it had happened or that he was now sharing the incident. “Um,” Desmond said. “Have you wanted to sleep with other guys?”

“Yes,” Altair said. He made a brief motion with his hand. “But I also want to sleep with women. Maria said she thought I was bisexual. Sass keeps calling me bisexual.”

“You would be,” Desmond said. “You’ve always been greedy as hell.”

Altair blurted a laugh and the tension eased out of his shoulders. He rubbed two fingers against his temple and then dropped his hand back down to rest on the gear shift. “Yeah. But, I was drunk when I slept with him. I woke up the next morning and saw him and ran out of the room naked. I wanted to sleep with that gay porn star in Amsterdam. I knew what I was doing. I mean—I _really_ wanted him. It would have ended up like Malik. I would have regretted it when it was done.”

“Why?” Desmond asked. They pulled into the parking lot of Altair’s job and parked in full view of the door. Altair parked but didn’t turn the engine off. He sat back in the driver’s seat and shrugged. “There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“So I am told,” Altair said. He reached over and picked up his clothes before turning the car off. “It doesn’t make me feel better.” Then he pushed the door open and got out of the car. The air was hot-hot-outside and Altair looked entirely out of place in his suit-and-tie. He strode across the parking lot with long-long steps the way he moved whenever he was headed into the business headquarters of his empire, the way he walked by lawyers and other businessmen that thought very-very-little of him. 

Desmond followed after him, into the cool interior of the fast-food place and up to the polished metal dividers that kept people in appropriate lines until they could make it up to the register. There was a tired woman wearing an apron and a visor with sweat on her face and a confused look on her face while she leaned across the counter to where Altair was talking. It was hard to make out the words he was using but it was evident enough from how he pulled a slim-printed check out of his jacket pocket and slid it toward her what his intention was. The woman (whose name tag called Debra) shrieked and slapped a hand over her mouth. Her eyes were filled with tears and she was shaking even before her fingers touched the check. 

The scene was interrupted by a short woman with gray in her hair and a vapid, hateful speed to her steps appearing from around the side of the metal. She took in the sight of Altair in his slick-business suit and Debra’s tear-stained face and her own face contorted in anger. “What is going on here?”

Altair reached up into his pocket again, tugged out a folded up magazine page, took his time about unfolding it and slapped it down on the counter in front of her. It was the new ad, the one where he was kneeling on the floor (wearing nothing but underwear) with both of his elbows pointed up and his hands behind his head. His face was unmistakable in that moment. The dismissive arrogance and the slow-burning anger was a perfect match to the ad. He’d written ‘I quit’ across the ad in large black letters. “I’m resigning,” he said. “I contact your superiors to tell them about your behavior toward me. Now, before you go off thinking to yourself that nobody would listen to some loser that works in this store when you have a spotless work record, please remember that my net worth is literally a million times more than yours. Perhaps more than that. Money invites respect that you simply cannot understand and they were very, _very_ eager to hear what I had to say. After you’ve lost your job, consider divorcing your cheating husband and finding something that makes you happy.” Then he smiled (like an asshole) and saluted the rest of the staff that were watching the exchange with gaping-open mouths. Altair was going to turn and walk away but he stopped at the last second, snapped his fingers and turned back around to look at her. “I forgot!” He pulled another sheet of paper out of pocket and slapped it on the counter top. “I am a _fucking genius_.” Then he nodded at her and left. 

Desmond followed him out again. “I think it might have been nicer to hire the ladies and throw the magazine pages.”

“Probably would have been,” Altair agreed. “Get in the car.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> you lied to me you know
> 
> I’m sure more than once.
> 
> You said you didn’t want to be in love 
> 
> I actually said: I like having the freedom to go where I want without worrying about the obligation of reporting in to a significant other that has claims over my time and attention
> 
> But I understand your point.
> 
> You’re my best friend
> 
> Well better that than nothing.
> 
> Still pissed you went off and fucked some stranger
> 
> Of course you are
> 
> Dick.
> 
> How are you going to seduce Ezio?
> 
> With sweet words and artistic genius. 
> 
> I have to go. Talk to you later.

Malik found Kadar in his room. His brother was purposefully facing away from him. The way he was purposefully keeping Sailor with him whenever he could manage it. The way he’d purposefully been avoiding Malik for two days now.

“Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?” Malik asked.

Kadar’s shoulders were stiff and unhappy but he threw the book he was reading on the floor and turned around to look at him. “I— I’m just angry. It’s not even at you. I’m just angry.” He put his feet on the floor and sighed. “Desmond asked me what happened. What did you do?”

“I told him how I felt about the tattoo. I told him that he should tell someone besides me about— _me_. He just quit his job and was very proud of himself about it. So now I have to go find some messenger that I can link to my phone so I’ll always be available to talk.” Malik leaned against the doorframe. “You don’t get angry for no reason, Kadar. Is it something I can help with?”

“No,” Kadar said. “I don’t know why I’m angry but I know that you can’t fix it. How did he quit his job?”

Malik smiled. “He gave this one lady who he said ‘eats literal trash because she can’t afford real food’ five hundred thousand dollars. Then he resigned to the boss he hates. Apparently he called someone very high up in the company and explained to them how this woman was treating her employees. He said that they weren’t impressed by him at first but after he explained who he was, they were very eager to make sure she was dealt with. Then he showed her his test scores because he was a ‘fucking genius’ and she couldn’t count change. So, what you’d expect.”

“What an asshole,” Kadar said. Then he sighed. “Want to go do something? Something normal?”

Malik nodded. “Yeah. Thai? Movies? That mini-golf place? I’ve only got one hand but I’ll probably still beat you.”

“Ha,” Kadar said. “I think not.” He dug a pair of socks out of his drawer and followed Malik downstairs to get their shoes on by the front door. 

\--

GuyFawkes23: @sass-badger, @son-of-no-one, are you going to be reading Breaking Dawn? (30m ago)

Sass-Badger: @guyfawkes23, we couldn’t leave a series unfinished. (26m ago)

Son-of-no-One: @Sass-Badger, the things I do for this friendship (21m ago)

MariaThorpe: @son-of-no-one, when I asked you to come visit me this weekend I did not expect that I would have to share you with a book. (17m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @MariaThorpe, don’t worry it won’t take long. (10m ago)  


Altair bought the book on his way to the airport and checked his phone for a message from Sass (who was still trying to figure out how to make the stupid program work). There was no new text but an e-mail that informed him she had gotten the book and had to go to occupational therapy so figuring out how to make the program work would have to wait. He sent her a message back saying 'have fun' and 'I'll try not to read it without you.' Then he sat in the first class lounge watching the other high-class travelers waiting for it time to board his flight. 


	47. Chapter 47

> **MSN contact**
> 
> I honestly don’t know what was more ridiculous about that book the fact that Bella fucking Swan turned out to be a super graceful vampire, the C-section by fang or the frankly terrifying misrepresentation of sex.
> 
> You forgot the grown man imprinting on a newborn
> 
> I was still pretending it didn’t happen.
> 
> However, Maria got tired of listening to me yell at this book
> 
> So we re-enacted some scenes. I sent you the pictures we managed for your website
> 
> If you want to use them.
> 
> Sure, I’ll use them 
> 
> Haven’t pissed off anyone in a few days

Altair was lying on Maria’s bed (for the first time in the two month’s they’d been pretending to have sex) with the dying glow of a laugh fading out of his chest. He had one arm across his bare belly and the other behind his head. Maria was lying on her belly to the left of his body with her laugh being slowly smothered by the fall of her hair and the generous fluff of the pillow she was pushing her face into. “I didn’t think you had a sense of humor,” he said.

She lifted herself up onto her elbows with the pillow shoved down to cover her breasts (a concern that hadn’t been even slightly addressed during the past forty minutes of them jumping around on the bed and taking terrible pictures of aggressively biting pillows). The pink on her face was a spotted-red mess but the good humor made her look (younger, prettier) less severe than usual. “It’s hard to laugh when you’re lying all the time,” Maria said. Then she rolled over onto her back with her arms flopped open. One of them hit him in the arm and then slid off to the side. She was nearly entirely naked, dressed only in a pair of sheer-pink panties that he tried very hard not to let himself look at. Maria looked down her own body and then up at him pointedly not looking at her. “Am I making you uncomfortable?”

Altair sat up (where he was far less tempted to look at her) and reached down between his spread knees to grab the fallen pillow and throw it behind him. “I make a habit out of not answering stupid questions.”

Maria was moving on the bed behind him. When he looked over his shoulder she was leaning back against the headboard with a dark sheet pulled up across her lap. “Should I cover my breasts as well?” In a perfect world, yes. Altair turned around so one of his legs was on the bed and the other off the side. He could see (but not touch, which was important) her. He shrugged and she took that to mean she was fine. “You have strange habits. Why did you get a job? Especially _that_ job.”

“It wasn’t that bad,” Altair said.

The words weren’t believable. Maria sighed at them. “You do not trust me. I do not trust you.” She threw the sheet off her bed and got up again. Her body was slim but strong, lightly defined through her arms and shoulders. When she scooped down to pick up a fallen pillow her long black hair fell forward and the delicate bones of her spine stood out. He counted them rather than look at her (amazing) ass easily discernable through the sheer panties. “Perhaps we can do something to fix that. Come on.”

(Altair probably could come at this point. Sexual frustration was making him stupid.) Altair got up with a groan of effort and followed her out to the square table set against the wall in her cramped little kitchen. It was black with tall-tall barstool seats. She was setting a bottle of wine in the center of it with two glasses held between her fingers dangling down by her hips. “I don’t think alcohol will make this more trustworthy,” he said.

“The wine is a decoration. I have seen your cousins. Your body can handle wine. If I brought out the Tequila then you know I am up to no good.” She sat in the seat opposite him, handed him a glass and set hers down in front of her. “Inappropriate questions,” she said. “You ask one and then I’ll ask one. Nothing too personal. Nothing we wouldn’t want to share. Strictly inappropriate questions we would not ask someone we would date.”

Altair was left trying to find an inappropriate question to ask while not staring at her breasts but watching her open the wine and pour it (daintily) into the glasses. He couldn’t think of anything (except breasts) and having no better ideas, settled for, “what would you have done if we weren’t interrupted in the kitchen that time? How far would you have let it go?”

Maria rolled her eyes. “That is a very _personal_ question. I would not have let you fuck me. I may have given you a hand? I had heard you were very fond of oral sex. I was willing to let you do that.” She took a sip of her wine and let the cup rest between her palms. “Have you ever had anything stuck up your butt?” Her smile was so sweetly pleased with itself. 

“Yes,” Altair said. “Once. This woman was sucking me off and she says something like, ‘oh my ex boyfriend loved this’ and then she tried to stick her finger up my butt.”

“Dry?” Maria said. (Her expression was horrified.)

“Yeah,” Altair said. “It didn’t go well. I mean it didn’t go at all. But then I couldn’t trust her and had to make sure I could see her hands at all times.” He took a drink while he thought of his next question and did not even have guilt about looking at Maria’s tits since she was all but pushing them into his face at that point. The clever smile at the edge of her mouth aware (of course) that she was torturing him for her own amusement. “Are you always the dominant one in the bedroom?”

“Oh yes,” Maria said. “You?”

Altair shrugged. “I’m the man? I’ve never _not_ been the man.”

“Have you ever had a woman sit on your face? Or perhaps more than one in quick succession? NO!” she put her hand up to stop his answer before he could tell her. “No,” she said again. “Have you ever gotten off on nothing but having a woman sit on your face? The first question was stupid.”

The blush that heated up his cheeks was a touch too hot and Maria’s pleased smile was a touch too embarrassing. “I mean, I still had to touch myself,” he said. “But yeah I’ve gotten pretty close. Especially if she’s really into it?” He laughed because the whole thing was stupid and Maria’s smile turned fond as she poured him some more wine. “At this point,” he said (just before he mouthed ‘thank you’ like an automatic response), “I could probably get off on nothing. I just miss touching people. That’s a warning. Don’t touch me while you’re naked. I’ll probably come on you.”

It was a stupid thing to say because Maria leaned across the table to run her hand down his arm. “Are you going to come right now, Altair?” she said in a sultry-sounding-voice that was too over-the-top to be serious. They were both laughing as she sat back, picked up the wine glass and tipped it up to swallow what was left in hers. She hooked an arm over the back of the stool and set the glass down with a quiet kiss of noise. “Your turn,” she said.

“Orgy?”

She nodded all-smug-and-pleased. “Oh yeah,” she said.

\--

Son-of-no-one: DON’T EAT THE PILLOWS, EDWARD (30m ago)

Im-not-drunk: I WON’T, @son-of-no-one (21m ago)

BestofThree: DON’T BREAK THE BED EDWARD (20m ago)

Im-no-drunk: well now I won’t make those kinds of promises, @bestofthree (18m ago)

Notyourbrother: RT: “ShaunRock1: what’s the joke with @im-not-drunk?” hey, @sass-badger, you’re being negligent in your ‘explaining Altair’s life’ duties. (13m ago)

Sass-Badger: @im-not-drunk, is named Edward, he is @son-of-no-one’s oldest cousin. This wasn’t even worth getting out of bed for. (10m ago)

Im-not-drunk: I would be interested in knowing what @sass-badger does not know about my cousin. (5m ago)

Sass-Badger: @im-not-drunk, I cannot know what I do not know. (1m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I sense a new feature on the Sett. (1m ago)

“I am not formatting a new feature for you!” Kadar shouted from his room.

Malik hadn’t even considered asking him to do it. He hadn’t even been paying that much attention to the feed. Mother had asked him if he intended to finish his schooling at the nearby university. The question was timed awkwardly, couched in the space between washing dishes and the evening prayer. Malik had not considered returning to the other university. It hadn’t occurred to him as a possibility. Some part of him had simply decided that he had been invalided and would remain home indefinitely. The easy way his subconscious had given in made him angry but trying to research his options was giving him the feeling of helpless inadequacy. “So don’t!” he shouted back.

“I won’t!” Kadar echoed.

\--

> ### August 6, 2008: Wordless Wednesday: literary edition
> 
> [Image: Altair and Maria lying on a rumpled bed. Maria has an exaggerated look of astonishment on her face, one arm over her head and the other hand pushing a pillow against Altair’s face. Altair is looming over her with both hands grabbing the sheets with fists while he bites a pillow.]
> 
> **Tagged** : _f: wordless Wednesdays, i: put your clothes back on Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, i: I used the word ‘literary’ lightly, i: I can’t wait to read the comments,_
> 
> • **FlySaltAir**  
>  Actually, maybe she’s posting this because she’s supportive of Altair’s real-life relationship.  
>  • **E-V-Fri**  
>  No, he clearly sent this picture to her. Why would he do that? What is wrong with men that they have to taunt people? This is literally spitting in Sass’ face! Oh look at me, oh look at how happy I am with my morally-questionable girlfriend. I don’t know what happened and I appreciate that Sass is trying to be the better person but this is kind of sickening.  
>  • **Deansfavoritejeans**  
>  I’m just going to sit here and fap to the moral outrage and Maria Thorpe’s amazing arms  
>  • **aquilafication**  
>  No! why? Nooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo,

Kadar had less than a month before he went back to school. That was not necessarily a problem because it was his senior year and he expected perfectly good things to come of it. (Of course he’d expected perfectly good things to come of it every year and thus far that had not happened as planned.) What was a problem was the fact that none of his pants fit him correctly anymore. Apparently whatever slim-and-toned gene Malik had inherited skipped Kadar entirely because he had outgrown his pants both in the waist and the length. He took offense at the fact that he’d outgrown his waistband because he was a perfectly active guy and by no means did he carry around any unnecessary weight. But there he was frowning down at his high-water pants with the button that was hanging on by the last thread screaming injustice even as the actual waistband cut off the circulation to his legs.

Mother noticed it when they were on their way to shopping and Kadar had told her it was only the one pair of pants that didn’t fit right (but it wasn’t). He had made a habit out of avoiding telling her when he needed clothes for so long it wasn’t even a conscious choice. Yet something had to be done. “Malik!” he shouted.

There his stupid brother was, still slim-built and compact. His stupid brother and his stupid face (also more genetically blessed than Kadar’s really) looking confused about why he was summoned. Kadar motioned down at his pant legs and Malik made a grimacing face. “Stop growing,” he said.

“Ha-ha. I’ll stop growing when I’m taller than you.” Then he pulled the button loose (before he did actually die) and shimmied the pants down his legs. He had a pair of sweats in his closet from gym class that fit (or approximately) that he put on. “I need pants.”

“Obviously,” Malik said. “Find your shoes, we can probably get through all the thrift shops before Mom gets home.” He was already walking away to go get his own shoes. 

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> So are we really just going to send Altair to Italy?
> 
> Are we really going to let him run off and meet some guy who has slept with Sass?
> 
> Do we really think that’s a good idea?
> 
> Aren’t you at work?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Is this what you think about at work?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> If I send you to Italy, will you keep Altair from fighting the artist?
> 
> If Altair wants to fight that artist, no power on earth will stop him

“Hey,” Desmond shouted. He had stopped running to check his phone and in the interim time between him stopping (originally) and _now_ , Altair had lapped him entirely. He jogged past just close enough that Desmond could reach out and slap him on the arm. The action didn’t stall Altair but slow him into a spin. “Are you going to Italy to start shit?”

Altair smiled at the question. He put his arms out at his sides while he jogged back with slow-choppy steps. “Me? Start shit?” he shouted. “Never!” Then he turned back around to face forward and sped up again. 

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> **Sass**
> 
> Someone on twitter just called me a fucking cheating whore
> 
> Same person also called Maria a homewrecking cunt
> 
> Are we comparing our favorite slurs?
> 
> I’m a spineless bitch with no integrity left that cries myself to sleep at night over the fact that I can’t have you.
> 
> But mostly they are angry at you.
> 
> I’m actually scared of what would happen if we were dating
> 
> Someone would not survive
> 
> Probably the Saltair fans
> 
> Too bad about that.
> 
> How would I make a feature based on the embarrassing amount of things I know about you?
> 
> Do it like Sex Saturdays. They ask questions, you answer them I confirm them
> 
> That’s stupid. What happens if I don’t know?
> 
> You have to answer something about yourself
> 
> In theory that would be acceptable. Except they’re just going to ask me about your penis.
> 
> I dropped my phone
> 
> Why does everyone care about my penis?
> 
> My brother showed me a website that has entire pages devoted to pictures of you walking with zoomed in views of your bulge.
> 
> of course they do
> 
> If we set up a feature like this, someone is going to ask.
> 
> Well I’ll send you a picture so you’ll know
> 
> Make sure you use a ruler. Size is difficult to judge without a reference.
> 
> I wouldn’t answer that question anyway.
> 
> I’m still going to send you the picture
> 
> I would expect nothing less.
> 
> I’ll think about this feature.

Altair did not own a ruler. It was a discovery he had after going through all of the drawers in his home. (He searched the cabinets as well, and the closets.) He had a variety of art supplies leftover from when he was a kid interested in learning how to draw. Mama Maria had encouraged his artistic leanings but circumstances had successfully diminished his interest. It seemed like he should have had a ruler in one of the boxes where he had pencils and sketch books.

When he gave up the search he sent a text to Desmond asking if he had a reliable ruler and the answer he got was ‘I have a tape measure’. Which was effectively the same thing (more or less). Altair went down to get it from him. (Riding on the elevator when he was caught somewhere between constant-insatiable lust and nervous arousal was a unique experience in anxiety. The elevator did not stop between his floor and Desmond’s but the fear that it might did not lessen at all.) 

“Why?” Desmond asked when he slapped the heavy-metal tape measure into his palm. “Do I want to know?”

“Sass said she needed a ‘reference’ to be sure how big my—”

“No,” Desmond said. He shoved Altair backward out of his apartment. “No. You can tell Lucy all about it. She’ll love it. Go. Go and don’t tell me.” Then he closed the door (gently).

Altair leaned against it, “she wants a picture of my dick, Desmond!” 

Desmond’s sigh was audible even through the door. “Let’s hope she finds it inviting instead of terrifying!” 

Altair laughed all the way to the elevator and back up to his place.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> It is midnight.
> 
> You should be asleep.
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> Why aren’t you asleep?
> 
> The idiot just sent me a dick picture.
> 
> What?
> 
> Let me see it
> 
> What
> 
> No
> 
> I need to know what it looks like
> 
> No you don’t
> 
> Fine but if you’re going to keep masturbating can you be quieter?
> 
> I hate you.

Kadar spent a moment to smirk at the wall that separated his room from Malik’s (as if Malik could sense it) before dropping his phone onto the bedside table and rolling back into the safety of his blanket. There was not actual distinctive sound coming from his brother’s room after the initial blurt of surprise that sounded a great deal like a curse of some kind. 

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> **Sofia**
> 
> If your friend does not stop sending me messages about Ezio I will kill him.
> 
> Don’t be so jealous, Sofia
> 
> You can say that because he’s not sending you messages asking which shirt he should wear to make himself more attractive
> 
> He told me his sexual fantasies though
> 
> I’m only saying that he won’t be able to have sex with Ezio when I get finished castrating him.
> 
> technically he could
> 
> How are you though?
> 
> How is this going to work? Won’t Leonardo going to meet them create the potential of you being discovered?
> 
> Yes
> 
> I’m counting on Leonardo’s clever wordplay
> 
> and Altair’s not going to be there
> 
> What happens if he does find out?
> 
> There’s really no way to know that.
> 
> but I imagine nothing good would happen
> 
> He just SENT ME ANOTHER PICTURE OF HIMSELF ASKING WHICH UNDERWEAR HE SHOULD TAKE.
> 
> stop helping him unless he agrees to take pictures of Ezio naked
> 
> I like that idea. I’m going to use it.

Malik had successfully avoided his Mother discovering his continuous state of wealth for so long that it seemed entirely sudden when she interrupted him making a sandwich in the kitchen to say, “do you have a job, Malik?” When he turned around to look at her, Mother’s face was a pinched-tight confusion of injured pride and anxious disapproval. It was clear from her severe eyebrows and her tight-clenched jaw that she had notions of what his job might be and disapproved of it entirely.

(What exactly she thought his job might be, he was not sure. He tried to grasp at some source of shame that would make her so violently unhappy and fell short of anything that seemed logical or likely.)

“I,” Malik said. (But he was still trying to figure out what she thought his profession was. Her hand was on her hip and the other was hanging at her side with curled fingers while she waited for the answer. When he delayed it a half-breath too long her fingers clenched tighter.) “I have a blog,” he said at last.

“A blog?” she repeated. “A blog does not allow you to buy whatever you wish! A blog does not give you the money to buy phones that cost more than our food and a new wardrobe for your brother. A blog does not explain the packages you have gotten in the mail.” Mother did not get upset often (or to any impressive degree). This was an anomaly that Malik simply did not know how to address.

“I set up advertising on the blog,” Malik said. “It’s nothing indecent. Did you think that I was putting pictures of myself on the internet?”

“I did not think you cared so little for yourself that you would freely offer your body to whoever you found suitably attractive,” she said. The words were a fever pitch of long-delayed anger. The disapproval that she had only minimally expressed seemed to have infected her thoughts. The clip of her teeth together at the end made the stifling atmosphere of the kitchen all the more unbearable. 

“Mother,” Malik said.

“You said that you would _not_ continue that behavior and yet I found you in the yard only days after the empty promise, arguing with your brother about having done it again.” Mother did not raise her voice. She did not have to when the expression on her face and the iced chill of her disapproval managed to convey her point so succinctly. “I did not think you cared so little for yourself that you would allow anyone to treat you with such dismissiveness. Least of all yourself.”

“Mother—”

“You are _my son_ ,” she snapped. “You are a reflection of the things that I have taught you. What lesson have I offered that has led you to believe these things that rule your actions now? I have been patient with you, Malik. I have waited and I have coaxed and I have guided you toward the correct path but you are a stubborn _ass_ that balks and fights. If you cannot respect yourself or me, you cannot live in my house.”

Malik’s body was tight (and cold, always that, the sudden loss of heat that made him feel as if he were enveloped in a snow bank) as he drew in a breath. There was a great wealth of words to think through, a confusing meaning to what she’d said. “So, you can accept that I am gay but not that I am gay and have sex?”

Mother let out a breath. “I expected more from my son than indiscriminate sex with strangers and silent lies. You were always an honest child, but you are not an honest man. If you think that you have spared my feelings by sneaking behind my back to provide for your brother, you are wrong.”

“I’m sorry,” Malik said. “I didn’t want to embarrass you.”

There was shame in the way Mother’s expression broke. She did not look at him but at her own hand spread out across the table. Her tongue swept across her lips while he waited for a response and it was an eternity of cold quiet before she did look up again. “You are a man. If you have the means to contribute to our house, I welcome it. There are bills that would benefit from your attention. Do not take away from my ability to provide for my son. He will not be a child for much longer.”

Malik nodded. “Yeah,” he said. Then he cleared his throat. “I can contribute however is best.” It was not the first time Malik’s money had gone to the house. His entire purpose in getting a job at sixteen was to ease the burden Mother operated under. He had a half-notion of relieving the constant need for overtime hours but it had never truly helped. She had ordered him to save his money whenever possible. His ‘bills’ had been to provide his own clothes and contribute to the grocery money. It hadn’t occurred to him (ever, apparently) that her reasoning for refusing his assistance was any more than her continuous need for him to learn how to be an adult. 

“Thank you,” Mother said. Then she cleared her throat, searched for something to say and when nothing came to mind, she turned and left.

\--

> ### Friday August 15, 2008: New Feature Announcement
> 
> Starting in September, once a month Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad and I will be co-hosting a feature called Fun Fact Fridays (named by NotYourBrother who cannot resist alliteration). This feature is a challenge issued by Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad and Mr. Kenway regarding how extensive my useless knowledge of the former’s life truly is. In an effort to text my knowledge, we will be inviting the readers to send questions about Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad to the Fun Fact Friday E-mail located at the bottom of this post. The link redirects you to a post concerning the rules of what question is acceptable.
> 
> We hope that Fun Fact Fridays will operate in the following manner:  
>  1\. The submitted questions will be chosen at random by Altair. He will read them on his livestream which will be announced at the start of each Fun Fact Friday.  
>  2\. I will have two minutes to answer the question via Twitter (or chat) before I forfeit the question. In the event I do not have an answer or if I answer incorrectly, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad will have the privilege of asking me a question about myself that I am obligated to answer honestly.  
>  3\. If I do answer and it is correct, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad will confirm it on air and donate fifty dollars to the charity that we name that week.  
>  4\. This will continue either monthly or bi-weekly depending on its rate of success. 
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: News or Announcement, F: Fun Fact Friday_  
> 

Desmond was practicing his bartending (again) with an array of Lucy’s closest friends, co-workers and people that tagged along for the chance to see somewhere expensive and generally off-limits. The party (if this spontaneous get-together could be called one) was a mild affair involving a lot of women and his precious TV being used to show a continuous loop of movies with catchy songs played over montages. 

“Save me,” Altair said when he (did not run) came to hide behind the table Desmond was using as a bar. He slid into the narrow space between the table and the wall and sat on the stool that was really there to be kept out of the way. “Either they want to touch me or they want to know what Maria is like in real life. And either way there are too many breasts out there to be ignored.”

“I told you not to come,” Desmond said.

Altair banged his forehead against the table and let his shoulders slump forward so his arms were hanging down toward the floor. Every line of his body was utter defeat as he mumbled, “that’s what everyone is telling me. I just want to fuck someone. I just miss sex. Fucking Christ, I’d probably fuck anyone at this point.”

“I feel uncomfortable standing next to you.” Desmond turned his attention away from Altair’s inarticulate moaning and up toward the lovely young woman that came looking for a round of shots. When she had been served he turned his attention back to Altair. He hadn’t returned to an upright position yet but was still staring at the floor under the table. “Why not take Maria up on her offer?”

“No, I said _I_ wanted to fuck someone. Not the other way around. Besides she doesn’t want to have to touch my dick. That’s like—the part of me I want touched.” Altair lifted his head up. “I mean, she’d probably let me eat her out.” 

Lucy stopped in front of the table with an empty glass and a disapprovingly raised eyebrow. “Before or after she fucks you in the ass?” she asked. She even picked up a handful of peanuts she’d left sitting on Desmond’s make-shift bar and dropped them into her mouth. “Is it like a reward for taking a dick?”

Altair’s ears were all pink along the top and he shifted the way he was sitting on stool so his lap was conspicuously hidden beneath the table. “At this point, I’d probably have sex with Desmond.”

“I’d watch,” Lucy said. She smiled too. 

“No,” Desmond said. Then he slid a shot glass toward Altair. “Drown your boner, man.”

\--

> ### Chat While You Play!
> 
> Sass: before we play, I have been meaning to tell you that you are an even more unbelievably arrogant man that I ever thought possible.  
>  Sass: I got your picture.  
>  Sass: the fact that you sent me a dildo that is approximately the same size as your dick does not make you charming  
>  Son-of-no-one: I thought it was pretty clever  
>  Sass: you’re an ass  
>  Son-of-no-one: well now that you know if you use it you can think of me  
>  Sass: I can’t imagine that you ever had any other expectation.  
>  Sass: I also can’t believe I let you fuck me  
>  Son-of-no-one: we made it work  
>  Sass: you’re a dick.  
>  Sass: also it’s categorically unfair that you are vaguely handsome, fabulously wealthy, reasonably famous and in possession of a high-paid-porn-star’s overly excessive penis. More people should hate you  
>  Son-of-no-one: it’s not the size, it’s how you use it.  
>  Sass: not always.  
>  Sass: were we going to play this game?  
>  Son-of-no-one: I don’t know, I thought I’d just sit here being arrogant about how you think my dick is hot  
>  Sass: must be hard to play while you’re masturbating  
>  Son-of-no-one: I feel like it’s the only chance you have to win.  
>  Sass: at some point you do think with your actual brain, correct?  
>  Son-of-no-one: yes. Why don’t you masturbate and try to play Scrabble at the same time, we’ll see who does a better job.  
>  Sass: because I only have one hand.  
>  Son-of-no-one: but I gave you a helpful tool!  
>  Sass: fine.  
>  Son-of-no-one: really?  
>  Sass: no.  
>  Son-of-no-one: I hate you  
>  Sass: go hump a pillow and come back.  
>  Son-of-no-one: Fine but I’m thinking of Maria while I do it.  
>  Sass: that’s fine I imagine you fucking a man when I masturbate  
>  Son-of-no-one: of course you do. I’ll be back

Malik leaned back into the computer chair and glanced over toward his wide-open door. Mother was in the bathroom finishing up her before-bed routine and Kadar was downstairs in the living room watch whatever inane television he’d decided was worth his time (this week). The level of arousal he was experiencing was amplified by the close-sounds of his Mother and her inevitable arrival at his door. Of course, the fact that his heart was racing in his chest at his stupid little bits of awkward honesty did not help the growing feeling of unease. There was no mistaking the heat in his face (a combination of daring and arousal, really). He closed his eyes and thought of the Quran. 

(Nothing else had ever so effectively defeated his libido.)

Mother did stop at his door after the bathroom fan flipped off. She paused a moment. They had not spoken much in the wake of her outburst. He hadn’t been avoiding her (precisely) but he had the feeling that she had gone out of her way to be busy at all times so there was never quite time to speak. Malik hadn’t told Kadar about it but his brother was still trying to be very inconspicuous about the changes in his wardrobe nonetheless. “I should not have spoken to you so sharply,” Mother said. Her fingers were against the doorframe but her feet did not cross the threshold. “I appreciate your assistance. You are a man, it is right that you help our household while you are here.”

This just wasn’t a conversation he could have while his dick was still half-hard over the notion of Altair jerking off in his penthouse condo. Malik licked his lips and looked away from the computer screen (a placid blue background) to glance over at her. Aquila had discovered her presence and was attacking the hem of her skirt with his tiny kitten paws. “I should have been honest with you,” he said.

“You _should_ be honest with me,” Mother corrected. (But gently.) “Why can you not tell me what it is?”

“I just—” Malik cleared his throat and picked at the chips in his desk. “I can’t.” It was really that simple. He looked up at her. There was hurt in her face but she nodded. 

“When you are ready,” she said again. “Sleep well, son.” Then she tapped her fingers against the doorjamb and turned to leave. Malik waited until she was safely in her room before he got up to close the door. By the time he made it back to his screen, Altair had already played the first word of the game.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> before I leave the house to catch this flight, as far as you know Altair will not be in Italy correct?
> 
> As far as I know
> 
> Didn’t you say Claudia said she didn’t tell him?
> 
> Yes but I assume there are other people in his family that know.
> 
> I have not seen anything on his social media sites to indicate he is aware
> 
> Does it matter if he’s there?
> 
> Setting aside the obvious burden of having to lie on your behalf. 
> 
> Ignoring the problematic nature of attempting to seduce Ezio while passing myself off as even remotely attractive to women.
> 
> Purposefully maintaining ignorance of my jealous spite directed toward this infantile man who seems to have effortless and undue control of your affection,
> 
> I have seen enough of Ezio’s show to know that Altair’s natural instinct is to exact physical vengeance 
> 
> I do not think much of him as a person but I have a fearful respect for both his physical prowess as a fighter and his seemingly amazing ability to ignore pain stimuli when angry.
> 
> if you don’t want to get beat up don’t be a dick
> 
> If he is there, call me
> 
> I have no doubt that he will be there
> 
> I only have doubt about what his intentions will be
> 
> If he’s there, call me

Kadar was leaning over the cart with a lollipop sticking out of the corner of his mouth, apparently heedless (or otherwise not in a state of caring) that he was not actually a child anymore. (In fact, Malik had the sneaking suspicion that Kadar had outgrown him in the past two months. They rarely stood next to one another and thus he couldn’t confirm his suspicion but it seemed likely.) “So, what college are you going to?”

“I just finished telling you I didn’t know,” Malik said. He was holding the school supply list that Kadar had given him (and that Mother had agreed they could go purchase while she was at work) and comparing it to the available folders and binders on the shelf. He was half tempted to throw nothing but sparkly, feminine ones into the cart but he was fairly certain that Kadar wouldn’t care and it would be a wasted effort. “Listen.”

“I did listen. I always listen. What you always say is ‘these are the reasons that everyone is wrong’ then you say ‘these are the reasons that it cannot be done’ and then you say ‘but I’ve actually already made a decision I simply can’t admit to it before I lay out all the pros and cons’. I just want to skip ahead to the decision part.” He pulled the sucker out of his mouth and looked at it with a frown. Then he stuck it back into his mouth and continued to suck on it.

“I don’t know,” Malik said. He grabbed a blue binder and threw it over his shoulder at Kadar. It hit him in the face before falling to the cart and landing on top of the boxes of pens and highlighters. “I see why you did not make the sports teams.”

“I see why you did not make the ‘most liked’ list,” Kadar said back. Then he bit down on the lollipop. He chewed it (obnoxiously) for a moment before pulling the little stick out of his mouth and pointing it at Malik. “You’re not wearing the jacket.”

Malik looked down at his shirt and then shrugged. (But he hadn’t noticed, really, the decision to not wear his black jacket or the lack of it until that moment.) “Could you help?”

“Fine,” Kadar said. He slid around the cart and grabbed the list out of Malik’s hand. “Big baby.”

\--

> FROM: Desmond M. [Shirley.Templar@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> I didn’t realize that my stupid cousin had decided to hide the fact that we were going to Italy. I don’t know your sister that well but I do know my cousin. Nothing is going to stop him if he wants a confrontation so I don’t know if we should warn Sass or just let things happen as they do. I told him to tell her and he didn’t even respond.

Kadar curled up his lip at that message. He stared at it for a minute. Then he looked back toward the stairs that led up to his brother’s room. Then he went back to look at the message. Mother was rinsing out her glass in the kitchen. So he picked Sailor off his chest and set the cat on the couch beside him to go find his Mother.

“Mom,” he said when he went through the doorway. “If you had the choice between telling someone something that would upset them and waiting for them to find it out on their own, what would you do?”

“Can anything be done about the thing that will upset them? Will the person you are or are not telling be more or less offended about being made to wait to find it out? Will the act of not telling them be more upsetting than the information you are withholding?” She wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and put it back over the bar. “Trust is important. I feel if you know something that you have any doubt that the other person should know, it is best to say it.”

Mother wasn’t talking about the hypothetical situation that Kadar was. Whatever she meant to say was not even directed at him (oh but the guilt that settled in his chest made it difficult to distinguish that). “Ok,” he said. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Do not be up so late tonight. You need to be preparing to go back to school now.” Then she kissed his forehead and went on her way to bed. 

Kadar waited in the kitchen for Malik to come down and find something to eat. It was a predictable habit that he couldn’t break. He showed up almost always approximately ten minutes after Mother said good night. Kadar leaned against the counter and read the message again before tucking the phone into his pocket and crossing his arms over his chest. 

Malik stopped in the doorway of the kitchen. “What?” 

“Altair’s in Italy,” Kadar said. Maybe he meant to say it casually or even confidentially but not so bluntly and emotionlessly. It was simply a fact that he was sharing. Then he watched Malik’s eyes squeeze shut and his jaw tighten before he drew in a breath and let it out again. His eyes opened and he nodded. “What does Mom know?”

Malik’s laugh was little and bitter. “My guess is Mom thinks I’m staring in online porn. Or something very similar to it.” Then he rubbed at the thick growth of hair at the top of his head and ruffled it up so it was standing out every which way. “I don’t know if ‘carrying on a lopsided relationship with a deeply closeted semi-celebrity’ is any better?”

“Well it’s the truth,” Kadar said. “That’s a start. Anyway, I told you.”

“Yup,” Malik said. He went toward the pantry as Kadar went toward the exit and it was only the (relatively soft) sound of Malik’s voice that stopped his departure. Malik said, “do you think I should tell her? Really?”

Kadar turned in the doorway. “I think you’ve gotten into a bad habit of lying, Malik. I think Mom’s an easy start if you care about telling the truth. I think she’d appreciate it.” Then he motioned back toward the living room and what he had been watching. 

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> You son of a bitch.
> 
> Leonardo hasn’t seen me yet so I can only assume it was Desmond that tattled
> 
> Explain to me what your intentions were that you felt it was necessary to hide the fact that you were going to Italy.
> 
> I think we’ve known one another long enough you shouldn’t even be surprised

Altair woke up to the quick-striding-footsteps of his cousin all but kicking open the guest door. Ezio was intolerably awake with his arms thrown wide open and his smile board across his face. His hair was pulled back away from his face (already) and his voice was an incomprehensible string of syllables Altair was simply too tired to put together.

“No,” he said. 

“You must get up. Claudia has not seen you yet!” Ezio grabbed the blankets by the long ends near the foot of the bed and pulled them so hard there was no chance of hanging onto them. “I wish to see her face before her new pet artist arrives.”

Altair rolled onto this back and rubbed his face. “Is Mama Maria here?”

“She will be here tomorrow. There was a fundraiser to attend. Now come, get up.” He motioned with both of his arms until the annoyance compelled Altair to his feet. He pulled on enough clothing to be considered decent in the interior of the Villa and yawned his way through the halls. Desmond seemed to have escaped Ezio’s attention (or else he was useless for making Claudia furious). “Claudia!” Ezio shouted. 

“What?” Claudia shouted back. She was outside in the garden, sitting in one of the chairs that faced Petruccio’s eagle statue. There was nothing around her to indicate that she’d been doing anything but looking at it. When she looked away to glance at her brother, Ezio stepped to the side with quick-feet-and-ballet-grace. Altair stood there like a useless bum rubbing one of his eyes with his thumb knuckle and yawning. Her expression was not murderous but resigned. “Men,” she said. “Men! Always thinking with their dicks. Fine, if you must come and wave your cock around wait until after I have gotten my paintings.”

Ezio was so pleased his face had gone pink. He was hiccupping laughs behind his fist pressed to his lips. “Sister!” he said to interrupt her rant. “Imagine what you would do to a woman that taunted you about the man you love?”

Claudia got up off her seat and stalked over to where her brother was standing. She tipped her head up at him with a scowl. “You have always been stupid, Ezio. Always too worried about your pride. Stupid.” Then she turned around to glare at him. “You are stupid too!”

Altair shrugged. When she was stomping away toward the house he yawned again. “I’m going back to sleep.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Altair is there
> 
> I believe I am about to meet his freakishly identical cousin Desmond.
> 
> I’m sorry Leonardo. I didn’t know
> 
> Stay out of it, Malik.
> 
> Don’t instigate something
> 
> I love you. That is why I offer you this advice.
> 
> Do not waste your time. Whatever will happen, will happen.
> 
> Fine.

Claudia was still snarling, “—never understand what is wrong with the brains of men! And you are here. If Altair hurts Leonardo while he is a guest in my house I will not hesitate to—” when the tall blond man stopped in front of them. He was smiling politely with enough genuine good humor that it nearly covered up the heavy fatigue of jetlag. There was nothing familiar at all about his physical person but an overall geniality that made his sudden, lingering presence mostly inoffensive. He had his phone in one hand and a bag hanging half off one shoulder.

“Hi,” he said. He pointed at the little sign Claudia was pointing and then at himself. “Me.”

“Oh,” Claudia said. She handed the sign to Desmond so she could embrace Leonardo. Claudia was not a tall woman but she had never looked quite as miniature as she did when she was folded into Leonardo’s long-arms. “Welcome to Italy,” she said. “I am Claudia, this is Desmond.”

Leonardo released her from the hug and smiled at Desmond with wary friendliness. He extended one hand and Desmond shook it. (Took note of the confident firmness of his grip.) “It’s nice to meet you, Desmond.” While he was shaking Desmond’s hand, he was sliding his phone into his pocket even while it continued to alert him to new messages. The buzzing didn’t seem to bother him at all. “You have a very distinct bone structure to your face,” Leonardo said. “Do you look much at all like your—grandfather?”

Claudia was looking at Desmond’s face now too. Her eyes were critical, but Desmond shrugged. “I don’t know,” Desmond said. He thought he should warn the man about what he was walking into. He thought there had to be a way to tell him of the inevitability of confrontation. With the warmth of Leonardo’s hand around him fading, he was trying to assure himself that this man’s height (if nothing else) gave him enough of an advantage to defend himself. 

“You must be tired,” Claudia said. “We’ll get your luggage and get you to a bed.” 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> I have never heard my brother curse someone so thoroughly or repeatedly before.
> 
> I know you watch the show, Leonardo
> 
> Protect your face is what I’m saying
> 
> Also, hope you never wanted to have sex with Malik ever again

Desmond was left with the task of securing Leonardo in his room (the gold guest room, Desmond) when Claudia was called away by the arrival of her Mother. She went with her hands in the air muttering things in Italian that didn’t sound promising. Her primary mistake was expecting Desmond to know anything about the Auditore villa. He smiled at Leonardo, “I don’t know where that room is. Come on, we should be able to find someone that does.”

Leonardo had the strap of his bag across his chest and his hands idly pushed into his pockets. His hair had been pulled loose (here and there) from the ponytail it was secured in. His placid face was a touch more exhausted now than it had been before. “While we search, perhaps you could give me a bit of advice about how to avoid injury.”

That was probably not a possibility anymore. Desmond sighed and motioned Leonardo in through the grand front entrance. The interior of the home was cool and dim compared to the brilliant sunshine pressing oppressively down on them out on the front steps. “Build a time machine, go back in time, and take back everything you ever said.” That wasn’t fair (exactly). He led them toward the kitchen. The Auditores were overly fond of their kitchen (at all times), it was almost sure that they’d find one of them there. If an actual family member could not be found, one of the servants almost certainly would be there. 

“I do not want to take back what I said,” Leonardo said. He turned his head when they walked past a framed painting and stilled to a full stop to look at it. There was a certain envious appreciation in his face before he pulled himself out of it and turned to look at Desmond. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Yeah. Of course you aren’t.” Nobody was until they found themselves in a room with no windows and Altair’s pissed off scowl pointed in their direction. “Come on.” Desmond found the kitchen with only one questionable turn. He expected to find Ezio (who was often hungry) but he found Federico holding Vincenzio against his chest. The little boy’s fingers were sticky and his mouth was stained from the fruit he was pushing into his gaping lips. Federico was smiling at him with open fondness. “Hey,” Desmond said.

Federico turned to look at him, sucked the fruit off his own thumb and looked at Leonardo one-two-beats too long. The smile that crept across his face was public-relations-perfect. He dropped his hand away from his mouth and Vincenzio tried to dip down to grab more food from the tray they were disturbing. “I did not expect to see you here, cousin,” Federico said. “How can I help you?”

“I’m supposed to show Leonardo the gold guest room. I don’t know where that is.”

“Allow me to show you,” Federico said. He picked up a towel to wipe Vincenzio’s face and hands before he dropped it into the chair (rather than the table) and strode toward the open doorway. “Welcome to our home, Leonardo. We are very pleased to have you.” Federico took them through the halls, remarking about the furnishings and the paintings like a museum curator showing off the pride of the collection. They went up the back stairs, around the dim corner at the top and then out into the front hall to the guest rooms. “This is the gold room,” Federico said. He pushed open the door and motioned inside. “Mother reserves it for her most favored guests.”

Leonardo slid around Federico and looked around the room. Even with his impressive height, he was dwarfed by the enormity of the furniture. The bed loomed over him, the curtains that hung around it held back by thick ties. The luxurious gold highlights were the color of sunlight and accented by white pieces and fine art. There was a statue in a recessed portion of the wall. For a moment, Leonardo just stood in the room looking around, shoulders hunched forward and hands stuck in his pockets. 

“Desmond!” Ezio shouted from down the hall. He was delighted to see him. 

Vincenzio (sitting on his father’s arm, looking unimpressed by the magnificence around him) jerked toward the sound of his uncle’s voice. He shoved his hands against Federico’s chest until he was set down and free to run down the hall with his arms up. His steps were unsteady but Ezio ran up and grabbed him before he could fall. The boy giggled when he was thrown into the air and caught again.

“Enjoy your stay,” Federico said to Leonardo. 

Ezio stopped in the doorway to peer into the room. His smile was feral-not-sincere and his eyebrows were raised-in-anticipation as he said, “welcome to our humble home.”

Leonardo rubbed a finger against his brow with one hand still stuck into his pocket. “I have been lead to believe there is nothing humble about this home,” Leonardo said. “Thank you.”

“We’ll give you a minute to change or whatever,” Desmond said. “One of those doors probably leads to a bathroom.”

“The one on the right,” Ezio said. “I’ll escort our guest, Desmond. Take Vincenzio down to the gardens. His mother is there.” Then he shooed Desmond on his way with a quick-grin. “Leonardo, I will be back to fetch you in a few minutes to give you a tour.”

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> I have just received a very interesting call.
> 
> o?
> 
> I have been invited to the Villa.
> 
> I told her that I would come if I were able.
> 
> One should always do what Mama Maria asks
> 
> My inclination is to accept. I do not want to intrude on whatever business you have.
> 
> What? No threats? No condemnations?
> 
> If it were I in your position, the damage I would inflict would last a lifetime.
> 
> Should I accept or decline this invitation?
> 
> Give me two days. Then come

Altair slept until afternoon after he returned to his bed. He woke up to find that Leonardo had come and was sleeping in the gold room until dinner. Claudia had been joined by Cristina (who could have been there when Altair arrived, in theory) and Mama Maria (who had not been there). The three of them were sitting primly in the small garden with the lush green grass and the small collection of children’s toys for Vincenzio. 

“Altair,” Mama Maria said warmly. She extended her arms and curled her fingers inward for him to come and be hugged. There was not a great wealth of good feelings between him and his plotting Aunt but he went and hugged her nonetheless. “I did not expect you.”

“Ezio invited me,” Altair said.

“Ah,” Mama Maria said. “Remember your manners while you are a guest in my home.” 

“I always remember my manners,” Altair said. 

Her expression conveyed to him how incorrect that assertion truly was. But she was sweet to not argue the point with him. “Sit,” Mama Maria said, “tell us about your girlfriend.”

Altair could have expressed his every individual thought about Sass that he had but Mama Maria meant Maria-Thorpe. That required more delicate thought than a great blurting of his thoughts. If Mama Maria knew the truth of his relationship, the placid expression on her face did not betray it. So he sat and smiled. “She’s really great,” he said.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Desmond M. [Shirley.Templar@gmail.com]
> 
> Since your stupid cousin and my stupid friend are both ignoring me, would you please be kind enough to tell me, at the very least, if/when they manage to finish their cock fight and what the damage is?

After an entire day of dread, the final meeting between Altair and Leonardo was a sadly staged affair. Ezio and Federico had decided (without the help of anyone with a higher degree of intelligence) the two of them should have the chance to meet without the direct attention of the entire family. While the women had assembled at the outdoor dining table, Federico had sent Ezio to bring Leonardo down for dinner and Desmond had been tasked with fetching Altair.

“What do they think Maria is going to do?” Desmond asked. The smell of food in the distance was far more inviting than standing around a corner waiting. Federico was just out of earshot, making excuses for their late attendance. 

“I don’t think they know,” Altair said. He was leaning against the building, looking like a spoiled rich dick, impatiently waiting. His phone (an always-present feature of his life) was conspicuously missing. When the shuffle of footsteps approach from inside, he looked up toward the sound but did not move. There was a fierce, sudden tense of his body and all the lingering good humor of his face disappeared.

Ezio came out of the door first and stepped out of the way. He took up a position like a bouncer and whistled at his brother who came back with casual footsteps that were a poor cover for his eagerness to observe this meeting.

Leonardo walked out with a sunshine-smile on his face. His face was much less heavy after a decent nap. He looked from one of them to the other, stopping on Altair leaning back against the wall. “M—y, Sass did not mention how short you were,” Leonardo said. He ignored the brothers and came over to stand in front of Altair. Men with more sense had withered in front of that glare but Leonardo squared his shoulders at full height and smiled back at him. “It is nice to meet you.”

Altair leaned up off the wall with a twist of his body that took him away from Leonardo and out toward the table for dinner. His silence was far worse than any words he might have offered.

\--

horse: there are so many lovely things about Italy. I am truly blessed to have been invited to visit such an amazing home and family (35m ago)

horse: happy to confirm that @son-of-no-one walks around with exactly the same expression as featured in his recent ads. (20m ago)

Malik met his Mother in the kitchen. It was his plan (not hers) but she did not seem surprised at all that it had happened. He picked his laptop up by the screen, turned it around and pushed it toward her with his fingers spread against the back of the screen. “This is my blog,” he said.

Mother sat on her side of the old card table and took a breath to steady herself before she looked at it. He had opened it to the very first post but there were popular links and pictures in the sidebar that he felt gave a complete picture of how he spent his time. There was even a section that showed his twitter feed. “Explain,” Mother said when she looked up. 

“I really didn’t want to be gay, Mom. I met Altair, the guy on Ezio’s show that’s always on his phone, at prom and we had sex. He left me before I woke up and—well you read it. I just wanted to vent. Then he found my blog. That was two years ago.”

Mother touched the mousepad on the laptop and clicked something with the tip of her finger. When it came up her eyebrows rose (so it simply must have been a picture of Altair with limited clothing) before she reached up to close his laptop. Her hands rested over the top of it. The expectation that he finish explaining himself evident from the quiet of her attention.

“I love him,” Malik said. “He thinks he loves me. He thinks I’m a woman.”

“Why would allow him to think that?” Mother asked.

“When I let him think it, I was angry at him. I didn’t want him to know who I was because I thought if he didn’t know, he couldn’t hurt me again. Now, I—he’s only just started to really think about why he’s afraid to admit he’s attracted to men. I—all of the evidence is there for him to figure it out.”

Mother nodded. “It was curious to me that you had hired a lawyer while you were in the hospital without ever making a phone call. It was very strange that your lawyer was so efficient. Does _Altair_ pay for this lawyer, Malik?”

“Yes. I asked him to protect my identity when the media found out about my blog.” He rested his arm on the table and tried to find the words to defend himself from the hanging accusation that he was being purposefully dishonest. There were none (nothing that worked) so he cleared his throat. “I won’t tell him,” he said, because the important thing was that he _could_ even if he did not like the idea of the results. “Not yet. I want to help him understand there’s nothing wrong with him. He’s like I was and I don’t want him to feel that way. And Leonardo is in Italy right now, the two of them are so set on fighting about _me_ and I can’t do anything to stop them. I thought I had this under control. I thought I had convinced Altair that I didn’t want him. That I wasn’t interested in being anything but a voice on the internet that told him he was wrong.”

There was the slightest smile on Mother’s face. “Make your purpose pure,” she said. “If you are not telling this man the truth because you fear losing him, you are a coward. Time will not lessen your guilt or the blame that is yours to shoulder. Help him, but not for your sake.” Then she also said, “how did Leonardo come to be in Italy?”

Oh-and-that was going to take a few minutes to explain.

\--

son-of-no-one: behold @horse. (14m ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “@saltears, my god it’s gone from a love triangle to a love square, at this rate we’ll be in octagon territory before the end of the year”, learn to subtract. (10m ago)

The picture that Altair put up of Leonardo was not actually a bad photograph. It was a picture of him standing in the garden looking at Petruccio’s eagle statue. His face was pensive (not ugly) and his arms were hugged across his chest. His blond hair was in disarray around his face but there was nothing overtly malicious about the photograph.

When Desmond went out to the garden, Leonardo was sitting on a tall chair with one of the bar tables from a separate area of the yard pulled up and set gingerly onto the grass. There was a half-realized sketch on the paper in front of him and a pencil gripped between his fingers as he rested his elbow against the corner of his sketch pad and stared at the eagle. “Hey,” Desmond said. “I thought you were painting?”

“I am considering my options,” Leonardo said. “Ezio told me about his brother. It is a sad story.”

“It was,” Desmond said. He looked at the statue. There was a much smaller replica of it in the California home. The timid inscription was written in Italian but Ezio had assured him that it dedicated the statue to Petruccio that wished to fly as a great eagle. “It did a lot of damage.” 

Ezio interrupted the quiet of the scene. He hovered on the stones without stepping out on the grass. “I’ve been sent to ask if you would like to go with my Mother and Claudia. They wanted to show you some of the sights before they condemn you to being stuck in our home indefinitely.” 

Leonardo nodded. “I would love to go.” He flipped the sketch book shut and picked it up off the table along with the small carrying case for his supplies. “Are you going?”

Ezio shrugged. “It is nothing I have not seen before.”

“But it is everything I have not seen before. You’re educated and concise, two qualities that are of dire importance in choosing a tour guide.” Leonardo had the sketch book under his arm and the case clenched in one hand as he stopped in front of Ezio. There was a good six inches of difference in their heights, enough that Ezio had step back to avoid tilting his head up to look at Leonardo. “But if you want to leave me at the mercy of your sister,” Leonardo said. “I will just have to suffer through the continuous flirting.”

“I’ll go,” Ezio said flatly. 

And Leonardo smiled so sincerely.

\--

MariaThorpe: Italy is beautiful this time of year. (10m ago)

Altair hated Leonardo. He hated him more intensely and more vividly than he even thought possible. It started at the top of his head and it filtered down to his feet until there was nothing he did not hate about the man. He hated him for the foolish length of his hair, for the gentle tilt of his smile, for the broad stretch of his shoulders, for the applause he got around the family table telling stories about his _accomplishments_. He hated Leonardo for his freckles. He hated him for his height. He hated him for the grace of his movements and the silent-studious intensity of his face as he wandered from one thing to another inside the villa.

Mama Maria had spent the whole of the first day hovering at the edges of wherever Leonardo went, disapproving of his sons with her tight frowns and repeated uses of their names. Federico had been sent away to enjoy a week in the vacation home with his family. Ezio had been coerced into assisting in the mission to show Leonardo all the beauty Italy had to offer (in a relative proximity to the villa).

Dinner had been delayed to wait until the happy group returned from their tour of fantastic sights. Ezio had filled dinner with recollections of uninspired sights while Leonardo happily augmented the stories with his own details. Every word that fell out of his mouth was another eager attempt to impress his hosts and flatter himself with a great show of his intelligence. 

“Aren’t you hungry?” Claudia asked Altair with pink humor high in her cheeks. She looked at Leonardo with unashamed adoration. 

“No,” Altair said.

“Ah, you can speak,” Leonardo said. He was seated several conscientious spaces away from Altair. “I have not heard your voice, I thought they must have hired an actor for the show.”

It was just that Altair hated him so thoroughly there was no thinking around it. “I don’t waste time speaking to people beneath me,” Altair said. He didn’t waste time waiting to be excused from the table but stood up before Mama Maria could tell him to leave. He balled up his napkin and threw it into his plate before he kicked his chair back up to the table and left. The silence his departure created lasted only long enough for his body to be out of eyesight before Mama Maria was apologizing on his behalf.

Altair went to the garden, to kick the bases of the old benches and lay on the grass where he could look up at the dim sky. His phone was in his room, stuck as far from him as he could get. Sass hadn’t bothered to send him messages telling him not to start a fight (because she knew better or because she was too angry with him to bother). Maria had sent him only a single message saying she would be there by Tuesday morning and leave again Thursday morning. 

There was no sound of footsteps to warn him that his peace was going to be interrupted but the sudden impact of a bread roll hitting him in the gut. “Asshole,” Desmond said. He was standing there with his hands on his hips. “You know what, both of you want this fucking fight so bad so let’s just do it. You know where his room is.”

“I can’t break Mama Maria’s antique furniture,” Altair said. He picked up the roll from where it had fallen into the grass. “He’ll find me. I’m sure there’s something he hasn't said.”

“What? Yeah, Altair, he’s fucked Sass. You know that.”

Altair closed his eyes and felt the bread roll (cold since he abandoned it) squeeze out through the spaces between his fingers. When he opened his hand it was deformed by the pressure and there was still no peace to be found in his own thoughts. “You’ve never fought for anything in your life, Desmond. I don’t expect you to understand.”

“Fuck you,” Desmond said. Then he turned and left.

\--

EzioAuditore: my future tattoo will look like this masterpiece by @horse 21m ago (25m ago) 

Altair had stayed in the garden until the cool of the evening air drove him up out of the damp grass and onto his feet. He walked the path back toward the house, expecting to find the doors (mostly) locked. He passed a puddle of light from one of the alcoves near the pool and heard Ezio’s laugh (warm-and-fond, the way he laughed when he wanted to fuck some girl) and turned toward it. He padded over on careful bare feet and looked around the corner.

Ezio was shirtless (of course he was), leaning forward against the high back of a stool with his arms crossed over the front of it. He was speaking _Italian_ (the language of _love_ ) with curled-up lips and long wispy hairs in his face. Leonardo was standing in front of him with his tongue between his teeth and his eyes narrowed in concentration. There was a spread of markers to the side of them, carelessly dropped on the table when they were no longer needed. A half-empty bottle of wine was dripping condensation while Ezio tipped his head with the sound of awe in his voice, saying, _”what color are your eyes_?”

Leonardo’s answer wasn’t a word but the quick press of his fingers across Ezio’s stubbled cheeks and his mouth pressing over Ezio’s lips. The motion of Ezio’s arm was sharp, his hand slapped against Leonardo’s chest and pushed him backward a half-space. The shock on Ezio’s face was palpable in the air but indecisive all at once. 

“No,” Ezio said.

“Do not worry over loyalty,” Leonardo said (so very quietly), “I knew before I came what was waiting. I am not afraid to face your cousin.” 

“What of the woman?”

“What woman?” Leonardo asked. The confusion on his face was an _insult_ before he opened his mouth. “Ah,” he said. “ _Sass_. I can’t do anything to make _her_ love me if she doesn’t.” Then he leaned back in to kiss Ezio again. Hesitant-and-faltering. And once more. And once more before Ezio’s hand against his chest relaxed and his jaw shifted from tensed to pliant. Leonardo’s fingers were in Ezio’s hair, pulling the band free and combing through the wavy length of it as it fell forward out of the tie. They were over his shoulders, rubbing and gripping at his arms. 

Altair reached out to push the second chair in the alcove over. It clattered to the ground and Ezio jumped backward off the one he’d been sitting on. “Hi,” Altair said.

“Altair,” Ezio said. He licked his lips while Leonardo pulled himself back up to his full height leaned against the sturdy table at his side. Leonardo’s carelessness was counter to Ezio’s franticness. Ezio picked up the wine bottle. “I should put this back,” before he was running for his life.

Leonardo waited until he was gone to clear his throat, “that was petulant. I expected something more classically vindictive from you.” Leonardo’s bravado was not without its holes. His ease was not so complete the lingering fear didn’t show through. “How do you imagine this will play out?”

But Ezio was back. The wine bottle was still in his fist as he reached out and grabbed Leonardo’s wrist. “I promised my Mother that I would not let you fight.” He dragged Leonardo after him. As he went, the light illuminated the great eagle drawn on his back, the length of its wings a dozen (or more) colors and the banner caught in its feet bearing the words, ‘Petruccio in flight.’

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> It’s only fair that I mention I briefly forgot you were a woman last night
> 
> Ezio seemed offended I would cheat on the love of my life
> 
> I recovered quickly and he was sufficiently distracted so I am not worried he will figure out anything
> 
> However, your cock-blocking boyfriend possibly heard me.

Desmond was in the hallway when Ezio left Leonardo’s room. There was no ducking out of the way to avoid an awkward scene either. Ezio was doing a full-out walk of shame out of the gold guest room complete with an rosy hickey sucked into his neck, knots in his hair and a conspicuous blurry-eyed look as he clutched his extraneous clothes against his chest. They saw one another and stopped entirely.

“I think that you can never call Altair gay again,” Desmond said.

“I think he’s actually stupider to deny being gay than I did before,” Ezio retorted. Then he straightened his back and lifted his head and strode down the hallway like a vain peacock after a successful mating. 

“Well fuck,” Desmond said to the hallway. Then he continued on his way down to breakfast.

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> Have you had your fight yet? I will be arriving soon.
> 
> No
> 
> Ah. Well, you have a few hours yet.

Altair did not go looking for Leonardo but he found him standing on the balcony attached to the group room on the upper floor. His hair was loose around his face and his fingers were loosely clasped together in front of him. The shirt he must have meant to put on was hanging over one of his arms. Those awful freckles that covered his face were all over his shoulders as well and patterned down his back. 

Leonardo looked over his shoulder at him, took a beat to decide if he wanted to acknowledge him, and then straightened up and smiled at him. “Do not worry about apologizing for last night. You delayed but didn’t prevent.”

“Do you make a habit out of fucking men you just met?” Altair asked. “Seems like if you actually did love her that you wouldn’t.”

At this, Leonardo dropped his shirt back on the bannister behind him. “What would you know about loving her? She is an imaginary thing to you. You haven’t slept next to her, you haven’t held her, you haven’t seen her cry—God knows you’ve caused it more than once. You don’t _deserve to know_ , you stupid _boy_. If I had known about you when there was time to save Sass from you, I would have spent all my time composing essays to your worthlessness.”

Altair’s jaw was so tight it sounded like creaking inside his skull. The hard knot of his fists were heavy at his side and the vibrant-bright-streak of violence was so intense inside of his chest that it was only the sudden stuttering stop of his breath that kept him from moving. 

Leonardo shrugged. “There is nothing that can be done about it now. You broke her. You’ve made Sass as low as you are.”

“I’m low?” Altair repeated. “ _I_ am low? Lower than you? There’s no high ground for you to look down on _me_. What are you? A coward that comes into _this_ home to poke at me and my family? A man that charms his way into someone’s bed—and for what reason? What reason would you have for seducing Ezio? The same reason you feel so _justified_ in mouthing off at me about what you’ve done with Sass?”

“Ha,” Leonardo said. “I fucked Ezio because it’s what I wanted to do. Can your tiny brain imagine that? I didn’t _charm_ my way into his bed, I seduced him into _mine_. Do you want a turn? I am very good at what I do, if you do not believe me you can ask your cousin or _Sass_. Either will give me glowing recommendations.”

(Oh-but-Altair was going to start hitting him and he wasn’t going to stop. He was going to hit him until Leonardo was blood-and-bits under his fists, a great gurgling mess of parts that were once connected.) 

“Let’s not be animals. You can try the rest of your life and never make up for the hurt you inflicted on Sass. You will simply _never_ be worthy.” 

Altair was going to turn around and walk away so it was (perhaps) more of a shock to him than it was to Leonardo when he slapped Leonardo across the face with the back of his hand. There was no greater insult (in Ezio’s estimation) than being slapped across the face. There was no act singularly more disrespectful than that. Altair watched Leonardo’s body fall sideways, his posture tipped and his feet stumbled. His mouth opened as blood-red-hurt filled out the colorless space beneath his freckles. The sound Leonardo made (bent over with one hand on his thigh) was a wheeze of hurt. “That’s not your choice,” Altair snapped at him. 

“Fuck you,” Leonardo snapped back. He straightened up, tossed his hair back out of his face and licked at his lips like he expected there to be blood there. “Coward,” he said, “why are you so afraid of dick, Altair?”

Oh and when he hit Leonardo that time, he did it and he _meant_ it. He hit him with his fist balled up and his knuckles breaking skin. He did it with his whole body into the motion, he did it so they fell over. Leonardo’s head hit the flat of the wall and Altair’s knees hit the ground on either side of his skinny hips. There was no shirt to hang onto so he had to press one hand against Leonardo’s flat chest to hold him down. 

There was a great cacophony of noise, the rise and fall of his own breath, the strike of fists-on-flesh, the wet grunts of effort (from him) and the nonsensical shout of words that couldn’t be distinguished. Someone grabbed him by the arm and Altair jerked his elbow back into their body so they released him. 

Leonardo was twisting beneath him, reaching over his head to grab a book that had fallen off the table by the wall. He threw it at Altair and it hit him across the nose. The pain was blinding for a moment, long enough for him to be shoved backward. Someone was shouting his name but it didn’t matter as much as grabbing Leonardo as he tried to slither away.

Altair’s hand around Leonardo’s ankle dragged him back down, but Leonardo’s foot against the center of his chest kicked him backward. It wouldn’t have been enough to even slow him down (hardly worthy of note) save for how his back caught the edge of the cut-glass table behind him. The pain was very hot and _incredible_ even before the sound of breaking glass sliced through it.

“Son of a bitch!” _was_ Leonardo’s voice. He was on his knees almost instantly, his face a mess of blood and swollen lips. He grabbed Altair by the shoulder and turned him away from the glass, his fingers were running down the throbbing mass of pain covering almost all of his back. “Shit,” Leonardo said. 

Altair would have asked him what the hell he was going on about but his fingers ran across something on his side that felt like a living _nightmare_. 

“I need towels,” Leonardo was saying over his shoulder. Footsteps ran away from him but he turned back to look down at Altair, one of his pale arms wiping the blood away from his nose. “I also saved Sass’ life,” Leonardo said. “In the back of that car. These two fingers,” he said holding up his two first right fingers, “the only thing that kept Sass from bleeding out.”

Altair jerked upright, grabbed Leonardo’s hair in in his fist and dragged his head down to bash it against his leg. It didn’t do much damage (if any) but it must have hurt because Leonardo fell over to the side with a groan even as the pain in Altair’s back-and-side got so bright he thought he might pass out. 

“Don’t fall on the glass!” Leonardo gasped. His hands caught Altair by the shirt and dragged him forward. 

Desmond was there, somewhere, dropping towels on the floor saying something like, “I hope she tells you both to fuck off.” Then he held up his phone with a look of absolute calm on his face. “Say cheese.” 

\--

> FROM: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> The end tally is: Leonardo has two stitches on his cheek. Altair has forty one total stitches on his back and side. Mama Maria has banned Altair from returning to the villa.

Kadar saw Malik’s face—dead and expressionless—and crept around the table to where his brother was sitting with a half-eaten plate of reheated leftovers. He expected a note about the stupidity happening in Italy but not a photograph of the two idiots in the brittle debris across a wooden floor. There was broken glass all over the floor, blood running out of Altair’s nose and a gash that started along his ribs on the side and went upward toward his spine in the back. Leonardo was crouching at his side with his face bruised-and-swollen and enough blood to make him nearly unidentifiable. 

Leonardo’s hands were covered in blood and Altair was pale enough to worry he might have been on the verge of passing out in the very next minute.

Malik reached up to slap the computer shut and got up from the table. He left without a word, up toward his room with quiet-quiet footsteps. The door didn’t slam and the silence of it was far, far more ominous than his fury might have been.

“I can’t even get a fucking girlfriend,” Kadar said to nobody. He picked up Malik’s leftover plate and sniffed it to see if it was edible. There was no point in approaching Malik before he’d emerged from his furious stupor so Kadar sat down to eat and figure out if there was anything to be done to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> now taking bets on who Malik is so furious at he teleports to their location and bloodily murders them. :D


	48. Chapter 48

> **Sass**
> 
> well lets have it then
> 
> tell me how I fucked up

Maria was _furious_ and it was contained just behind the smile that crossed her face as soon as the hospital doors opened and pushed him out. Altair was _drugged_ (and the world was like syrup all around him) but her arm was around his back, low enough to miss the padded weight of the bandage protecting the wound. The wide-brimmed-hat she was wearing had done nothing to hide her identity because there were people with cameras standing there. Her fingernails dug into his side through his shirt. “If your friend does not kill you for this, I would gladly do it,” she hissed into his ear.

“Fuck you,” Altair mumbled. But he lifted his right arm and slung it around her shoulders. Her body turned in toward him where her face was mostly safe from the cameras. He took her hat off with his fumbling-left-hand and held it so it blocked the flash as he dragged her toward the car that Giovanni had sent. The move was shrewd (not helpful specifically), mean to minimize exposure while letting anyone interested in writing a story know that the Auditore family would not be commenting on this one. The interior of the car was cool but the seat back pressed against his back to bring a fresh horror of pain that was enough to cut through the drugged fog he was swimming in.

“Fuck me?” Maria said as soon as the door was closed. She took her hat back out of his hand and slapped it into her lap. “You _would be so lucky_ after this. What were you thinking?”

Altair shifted his body so his back wasn’t pressed against the seat and rested his head against the seat rest. “You told me to fight him.” He could only smell blood and the world seemed to kind of shimmer and swim around him. (Truth be told, he couldn’t even be completely sure what language he was speaking in.) 

Maria’s head was tilted to the side and her expression was blank-white-anger. It was the curious sort of look that Grandma had whenever she was told news that ‘…was a disappointment to hear, dear’. Those were the words that had toppled corporations. Those were the words she said when Altair had stood by her bedside in the middle of the ground crying about the boy that called him names. She had the same look of untranslatable anger. (Oh-and-what-had-she-done then?) Maria did not have Grandmother’s voice, the soft trill of sound, smooth and innocent _all the time_. Her words were clipped and fierce. “I thought you had the sense to use _words_! What you did was _illegal_. What you did was _stupid_. What you did was an _embarrassment_! This is why you are the stupidest cousin.”

“Oh shut up,” Altair mumbled. His mouth was dry and he was in pain and he didn’t want to be lectured about what he’d done. “Federico and Ezio have done worse.”

“Have they?” Maria asked. “There is no proof. There is no story. There are no pictures.” But her tone changed as she shifted in her seat so she wasn’t looking at him anymore. Her jaw was tight and her eyes were wide-staring (seeing nothing). “Do you think that she will thank you for what you’ve done?”

No. But then, Altair had very purposefully gone out of his way to make sure Sass understood that he was not going to be dissuaded from his intentions. “Just stop,” he said. “Save it for when I stand a chance at remembering this conversation, huh?”

“Fuck you,” Maria repeated. “I hope she sees you for what you are.”

\--

> FROM: Desmond M. [Shirley.templar@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I regret to be the (first) one to send this message to you. I thought a friendly, fair warning would be considerably more welcome than the alternative. Please do not post the picture that I sent you. The Auditore family lawyers are going to be drafting a confidentiality agreement that your lawyer will explain to you regarding that photograph. Along with that, I believe that Mama Maria and Giovanni will be sending a sincere apology to you regarding their failure to protect your friend from the fuck head. If it matters (and I am not certain that it does at the moment), Leonardo was very well taken care of by the family’s preferred doctors and they, of course, were happy to pay for everything. He has no broken bones, only an excessive amount of bruising and a mild concussion.

Malik had absolutely no intention of putting the photograph on the internet. It had nothing to do with the whims of the super-rich (surely not-connected-with-the-mob) Auditore family scrambling to cover their own ass. For that matter, it had nothing to do with Altair _at all_ but once-upon-a-time, Leonardo had given him the option of having his picture made public property or not and it seemed like (despite everything) Malik was _required_ to extend that same respect to him. 

He stood in the kitchen, chewing hard-store-brand-cereal, (tasting blood in his mouth), thinking about nothing-nothing-nothing. (But when he did think about something, he thought of Leonardo’s face black-and-blue and the words _no broken bones_ and _mild concussion_ and set that against the vivid-red of Altair’s blood in the photograph Desmond had sent him. 

Then dropped his bowl of cereal in the sink without caring that it might have shattered and went _outside_ where the dreary late-summer air was a relief from the things he couldn’t _think around_. He left his phone inside where it’s intermittent buzzing was more easily ignored.

Violence had not been an option for him as a child. It was not that he hadn’t suffered slights or prejudice. He had been bullied as much as any other child that refused to conform absolutely. He was no angel, there were many times when he had thought fondly of how easily it would have been to punch someone in the face to make it known (without a doubt) that the words falling from their fat mouths were absolutely unwanted.

The only time Malik had _hit_ someone as a child had been the boys that were trying to make his brother eat the stupid ham and bacon sandwich. Kadar was a stupid first grader, easily convinced to do whatever he thought would make the bullies like-him-best. Malik had watched the whole disaster unfold from across the cafeteria. He had told the woman that walked between the tables (separated by grade, of course) and when she assure him it would be fine but then done _nothing_ about it, Malik had gotten up and crossed the cafeteria. There hadn’t been time to make his case with _words_ when there were teachers and cafeteria attendants coming to stop him. Malik shoved the biggest boy backward off the bench he’d been sitting on and then kicked him in the ass. He had said, _leave him alone!_ in the brief second before he was pulled abruptly backward by a horrified adult. 

Mother’s disapproval had been so complete. Malik had spent weeks of his life writing out the reasons his actions were unacceptable and developing dozens (and dozens) of alternate scenarios that he might have employed instead. Bitterness turned to dreary resignation of his fate had finally turned to quiet respect for the power of _thought_. 

Altair’s actions reduced him to violent impulses. Malik was grinding his teeth, thinking all the ways he would hurt the bastard if he were _standing right there_. The same time he was daydreaming about punching him in the face, he was (living waking nightmares about) what Leonardo-had-done to earn a concussion. 

Malik wasn’t _ready_ to deal with them. So he left the phone in the room where it could vibrate until the battery died.

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> As you are incapable of understanding I have no desire to speak to you currently I will be disabling this feature until I am able to consider speaking with you again.

Giovanni was in the sitting area of the hotel room. He was impeccable in a suit, looking both wan and powerful with no more than his presence and the tilt of his head. It was strategic (of course it was) that he had come so early in the morning. It was _intentional_ that his clothes marked him the successful capitalist (and possible head of a large mafia organization) that he was and Altair was yawning sleep out of his eyes, wearing sweat pants he didn’t think belonged to him and an old T-shirt that barely fit him. 

“Sit,” Giovanni said when Altair came to a dull stop just out of reach. The man had never hurt him. Giovanni had never (so far as Altair knew) ever applied violence to anyone much less the children he was raising. Regardless of his even temper and his abhorrence of corporeal punishment (for _children_ ) the awareness that he _could_ inflict damage was evident in every long-lean-line of his body. 

Altair sat but oh-so-carefully. The heavy medication of the day before had worn off leaving him feeling beaten and uncomfortably in pain. 

“I have been told that the brutal act of violence that you committed against a guest in my home was about an anonymous person on the internet that you may or may not have had sex with at some point in the past.” Giovanni did not move much while he spoke. He did not raise his voice. He sat still, he spoke evenly, and he looked directly at Altair. (It was no wonder Desmond couldn’t stand to be around him for very long at all.)

“I thought Mama Maria would do this part,” Altair said. He would have leaned back against the seat but the wound hurt any time his posture changed even-the-slightest. He kept his back straight.

“Allow me to be clear,” Giovanni said. “As clear as you were regarding your opinions about Desmond.” The pause spanned longer than a breath but Giovanni did not move (beyond a quick involuntary blink of his eyes) before he said, “you are a _child_. Your actions are the actions of a spoiled _toddler_.” Then, quicker than Altair could even realize he had rolled his eyes, Giovanni’s whole body slid forward and he was on his feet. The sudden jerk of motion interrupted whatever Altair had been half-thinking about saying. “I have never spoken to you like a man because you have never been a man,” Giovanni said to him. “So I will simply have to _hope_ that the words I am about to say will penetrate the shell protecting your _useless_ brain from new information. For all that you despise William Miles, I do believe you are very close to becoming him.”

Altair’s teeth were pressed together so hard he could hear the grinding inside his skull. His hands were clenched around the sides of the chair and he was staring at the wall beyond the straight-up-down shadow of Giovanni standing to the side of his vision. It took too long (far too long) for him to look up. There was no satisfaction on Giovanni’s face but grim assurance of the truth of his words. “I thought William didn’t hit anyone.” Every word was a dead-sound. Each sound was cut out of his throat.

Giovanni tipped his head ever-so-slightly and narrowed his eyes. “I expect that you will very sincerely apologize to our guest at your earliest convenience.” Then he was moving toward the door, pausing only when Maria came out of the bedroom of the suite. He wished her a pleasant day and she thanked him before he left. When he was gone, there was no sound in the suite louder than the throb of Altair’s heart in his chest.

“I expected more violence,” Maria said. She came over wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas and paused a good distance from his side.

“No,” Altair said softly. “Federico does the violence.” Then he got back to his feet. “I’m going back to bed.”

“That will make everything all better,” Maria remarked. She sat in the seat Giovanni had been in not so long ago. “Of course you can’t do much damage while you’re there. So it’s probably for the best.”

“Could you just give it a rest?” Altair demanded. He left before he could hear her response.

\--

> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> Has she dumped you yet?
> 
> Since she’s a lesbian bitch that’s only pretending to fuck me for the sake of her career, no
> 
> You’re actually so much more of an asshole now than you ever have been.
> 
> he started it
> 
> Really? He hit you first?
> 
> you know what I mean
> 
> You know there is no defense for what you did.
> 
> There’s no justification for this
> 
> Whatever

Desmond was dead-tired by the time he made it back home. He expected to walk into the same sort of anger that Lucy has been expressing through an increasingly aggravated set of texts and phone calls. He was prepared to deal with the onslaught of her tight-and-high voice explaining to him the nature of his failures. He walked into a dark living room with his shoulders caving forward and the inevitability of this confrontation dragging his feet in long-long-shuffles onward. 

He had to go through most of the house before he found Lucy in bed. She was curled up with a hardback book, her long fingers holding it open down the center while she read. Her phone was laying on the rumpled blankets next to her. The only acknowledgement he got was a flick of her eyes away from the page and the lift of one of her fingers to tell him that she would need another minute. So he set about pulling off the clothes he’d been wearing for the unhappy duration of the flight and went to throw them in the laundry basket.

By the time he came back (clad in only his underclothes), she had set the book aside and was sitting up in the middle of the bed. Her hands were cradled around her phone and rest in her lap. “So you told me that there was no stopping him once he got it into his head to do this.” She looked at the bruise on Desmond’s face (possibly not very visible under the scruff of so many days without shaving). “I should have believed you.”

“I could have tried harder.”

“No,” Lucy said. “It’s not our job. It’s not our responsibility to make sure he doesn’t do stupid shit like this. I shouldn’t have asked you to even try. I’m sorry.” Then she got up on her knees and walked over to the side of the bed. Her hands were cool against his hot face as her fingers ran over the bruise. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

Desmond shrugged. 

Lucy kissed his jaw where the bruise was a vague diffuse pain. Then she rubbed her hands over his shoulders and slid her arms under his to pull him closer to her. He kissed her hair and stroked her back. “You smell,” she said quietly.

“I was hungover when I got on the plane,” Desmond said. Her hum of disapproval was a red-rash-of-guilt in his gut but she did not follow it up with any further condemnations. Instead she pushed him toward the bathroom. “But I’m tired,” he said.

“Shower first.” Then she went back to her spot and picked up her book again.

\--

horse: there are few sights in Italy more breath-taking than the one I am looking at. (14m ago)

Malik was cleaning out the outside shed when Mother interrupted his (admittedly somewhat childish) temper tantrum with a gentle sound. She stood there with her work clothes (her oldest clothes from the bucket in the bottom of her closet) and a pair of pretty blue garden gloves on her hands. Her hair was pulled away from her face as she said, “would you like help?”

The truth was that Malik wanted the excuse to kick things. Violence could not solve the problem that he was facing. Violence could not sort out the things he was feeling. It was sheering away from his head in long-thin-sheets. First guilt that came away sliver-thin and fragile. It was like his skin that had tightened all around the nebulous, explosive things caught inside. It was inconstant in shape, always changing and expanding when a new charge blew inside. 

_Malik_ had contributed to this situation. _Malik_ had let this drag on. _Malik_ had kept these secrets. 

“I got it,” Malik said after a pause. 

Mother nodded. “When you are finished, would you talk to me?”

Malik shrugged. Mother nodded and then went to busy herself with the other yard work that had gone on half-finished for a few weeks. Her busy sounds were soft hums of songs he remembered from childhood. And he ducked back into the shed to attack the cobwebs and the clutter. It was a task that he detested with two hands and probably shouldn’t have attempted with only one and limited concentrate to spare on paying attention to what he was doing. 

A knock on the shed door interrupted him from sorting out paint cans that had probably needed to be properly disposed of about six years ago. Kadar was standing there looking like he wanted to be just about anywhere else in the world from right there. “Hey,” he said.

“Go away,” Malik said. He picked up the can in the corner and dragged it out, tipped it back and tried to make an educated choice from the weight of it and the fading on the label how overdue it was to be thrown out. 

“Look, I said I wasn’t going to lie for you,” Kadar was saying. He reached up and picked at something on the center beam of the shed. A shower of dust and debris fell down that made him jerk back and dust it out of his overly-long hair. “That doesn’t mean we can’t talk about it.”

“Either you’re going to tell me that this isn’t Altair’s fault because I created the situation by lying to him and leading him on or you are going to say this is Altair’s fault because he’s old enough to know that physical violence is not the answer. Neither answer really helps me,” Malik said. He shifted the paint can back and forth to walk it to the rest of the pile he was getting rid of. 

“Maybe I was going to ask you how Leonardo was,” Kadar said. When he finished sweeping the debris off his shirt, he put his hand back up against the beam and leaned forward against it. While it probably wasn’t his most pressing concern at that moment, the slight smile that crossed his face was proof enough that he was aware he’d finally achieved his lifelong goal. (It was a sad commentary on their lives that Kadar had spent all of his childhood declaring how when he grew up he wanted to be tall enough to touch the ceiling of every room.) “I mean I know you’re preoccupied with how hot and unavailable Altair is but Leonardo is a real person.”

Malik licked his lips and shrugged. “He hasn’t sent me any messages.”

“ _Why?_ ” 

“If I had to guess,” and Malik had tried to guess over-and-over in between the icy-burning-fury that preoccupied his every waking moment, “I would say that he is aware I have no desire to speak to him.”

“He’s your friend,” Kadar whispered.

“If he was my fucking friend, he wouldn’t have done this!” Malik shouted at him. It was more than he intended to say. (More than he intended to think, really.) He drew in a breath and let it out again (as slow as a dragon) before he shrugged. “They both wanted this fight. They were both set on having it. They got what they wanted, didn’t they?”

“Fine,” Kadar said. “But while you’re out here trying to figure out what you think about this. Try asking yourself this—how are you ever going to be able to tell _that man_ the truth? I don’t doubt _for a minute_ that Leonardo knows exactly what to say to get the reaction he wants. And I don’t doubt for a minute that Altair did not intend to stop what he started. So while you’re assigning blame, make sure you take that into account.”

“Duly noted. Now go away.”

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> **The Smartest Auditore**
> 
> You are a pig
> 
> Did you fuck the artist too?
> 
> Compared to him, you are an animal.
> 
> Well that’s not fair, you haven’t had sex with me
> 
> DISGUSTING
> 
> Just be careful because he likes to talk about the women he’s fucked
> 
> You are not sorry.
> 
> I’m of the opinion when both participants actively pursue a fight there’s no reason to be sorry about it
> 
> Is he sorry?
> 
> I feel sorry for you.

The peculiar thing was that Maria actually slept in the bed with him. There was nobody in the hotel room with them and no reason to think that she had any desire to sleep near him and yet she was there in front of him yet again. She wasn’t sleeping but looking at her phone with a side-sliding frown. 

“When do you go back to shooting?” he asked.

“We,” she corrected. “When do _we_ go back to shooting?” She didn’t put her phone down but kept pressing her thumbs against the tiny letter keys until she reached an end to whatever she wanted to say. Then she dropped it against her chest and looked at him. “Why did you hit him?”

“Because fuck him,” Altair mumbled. 

“You could have done that,” she said. “In fact, I would still have respect for you if you had. And you could have respect for yourself as the most virile dominant male.” She wiggled around to lay on her side and touched the tape at the top of the bandage. “What has your other girlfriend said?”

If he were able to do it, Altair would have rolled onto his back and gotten up. Instead, he had to roll onto his stomach and use his arms (very delicately on the one side) to lift himself up to his knees. He scooted backward until he could get one foot on the ground. When he was standing, he rolled his neck and rubbed at it where the unfortunate pain from sleeping on his side had started to settle in. “Nothing,” he said. “Why do you care that I hit him? You’re the one that said—the damage you would inflict would last a life time.”

“Mental damage,” Maria said. She sat up on the bed and tilted her head to the side. “I meant, I would do to him whatever it was that he did to you. What was it that he said that prompted you to hit him?”

“He said that I made Sass ‘as low as me’ and that I wasn’t worthy of her and never would be and asked if I wanted to fuck him.” Altair shrugged and wished he had not. Then he rubbed his right hand through his hair. It was disgusting under his fingertips, all oil and grit. “Can you help me wash my hair?” he asked.

“Well, the artist is a good deal cleverer than I thought he was,” Maria said. She got up off the bed and stood in front of him. While she wasn’t exactly short, she was had to get on her toes to push her fingers through the hair at the top of his head. She looked skeptical about it. “I could try,” she said. 

“You haven’t even met him,” Altair said. He could have gone on a tirade about how clever Leonardo wasn’t save for how Maria’s sweet smile interrupted him.

“The damage you did to him is severe, yes. But it is momentary. When the bruises fade, he’ll still know that he won. The damage he did to you will last indefinitely. You don’t think you’re worthy to meet this woman. You do think you’ve made her worse by knowing her. And he knows that you do want to fuck men. You should work on your weaknesses, Altair. They are starting to outnumber your strengths.”

“She won’t talk to me,” Altair said. It wasn’t what he meant to say but coming up with enough effort to deny the words she said before he’d had the time to take pain medicine simply wasn’t worth it. The wound on his side hurt and his hair felt disgusting beyond measure. He wanted a shower (or a bath) more than he wanted anything in life.

“Why would she?” Maria asked. “Why would you think that she would? You knew she didn’t want this and you let your pride decide for you instead of your head.” Then she motioned toward the bathroom. “Come on, let’s take care of your hair. We have to leave today and if I must be seen with you, I will need you to look presentable.”

“Am I going with you because Mama Maria said you had to take me or—”

“You’re going with me because the rumors are all about how you started a fight over your stupid internet girlfriend instead of me,” Maria said. “Since you have not said that we are ‘breaking up’ and since I’d really prefer not to be dumped for an imaginary person, I’m going to assume that you’re still agreeable to pretending to be my boyfriend. As such I need you to come let me take care of you.” But from the look on her face and the tone in her voice, ‘taking care of him’ was very far away from the things that Maria wanted to do. “If you’re finished with me, I’ll gladly dump you in the most humiliating way I possibly can. That is what Mama Maria advised me to do.”

Altair sighed. “Well thanks for not doing that.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> What did you tell her happened?
> 
> I told her nothing. I sent a picture.
> 
> Then why isn’t she talking to me?
> 
> You’re a fucking genius.  
>    
>  Figure it out.

Desmond considered texting Ezio about Leonardo’s well-being. The last thing he’d heard was from Claudia and it had been a rather unhappily detailed message about how Ezio had gone off and taken the artist away without telling anywhere where he’d gone. She made sure to mention that she might have been more worried about their location if not for the fact that Altair had left with Maria to go back to finish shooting her film. 

Whatever Ezio was doing with the artist (and Desmond could hazard a guess or two about that) he probably didn’t want any interruptions. For that matter, Desmond wasn’t even sure if he had the right to be curious about the man’s well-being. The truth was that he had _not_ tried to stop Altair. He hadn’t even vaguely attempted. Instead of doing anything to halt the progression of events he’d just stood by and watched them unfold. 

It was a pattern of behavior, his acceptance and silent agreement with the things that Altair did. The longer he thought about it, the more instances of the same behavior came to mind. He had to wonder if the things he agreed to without protest were as harmless as he thought. (And he had to wonder, exactly when it was that he’d simply stopped fighting. When it had become easier to let Altair do the stupid shit he wanted to do and take no part in it. Had to wonder when Altair’s-wellbeing had stopped being more important than his own life.) 

Desmond turned his phone over a few dozen (or hundred) times before he gave into the impulse and sent a quick message to Ezio asking how Leonardo was doing. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Tell me what happened.
> 
> That may require a slightly more reliable keyboard. I should be able to borrow one when we return to the villa tomorrow but there is not one here now.
> 
> Don’t leave anything out
> 
> I won’t.

Malik was on the couch when Mother came home. His laptop was sitting on the coffee table in front of him but he was leaning back into the sofa with his head tipped back to look at the ceiling. Aquila had climbed up his shirt to bite at the buttons and swat at his goatee with stalwart determination. 

“Will you speak to me?” Mother asked again. She came around the coffee table and hovered there next to the empty space at his side. Malik turned his head and then nodded. Mother sat at his side as he leaned forward (forcing Aquila to jump off his chest) and used the mousepad on his computer to change to the tab where the photograph was (still) open. He picked the laptop up and handed it to her before flopping back into place. Her mouth dropped open just seconds before she drew in a gasp and then, “is that Leonardo?”

“Yes,” Malik said softly. He could see the picture and the tears that came to his mother’s eyes. She was holding the computer with one hand under the keyboard but she touched the screen with her free fingertips. “They were fighting about me.”

Mother set the laptop on her lap and reached over to take a tissue from the box that stood on the table at the end of the couch. She wiped her face and tried to smooth out the expression on her face. That required closing the laptop and putting it physically away from herself. She turned sideways on the couch and said, “did you ask them to fight about you?”

“No,” Malik said. His head was still back against the couch, his body felt like pudding after days of barely sleeping. The anger had overwhelmed him. He had cleaned out his room, he had thrown away everything frivolous and stupid that he owned. The dictionaries that had stood by his bed (as a constant hazard for his poor toes) had been shoved into the bottom of his closet. It was only Kadar that saved the stupid badger plush from an untimely demise. Malik wasn’t sure when his brother had come to take it or where he’d hidden it but it was conspicuously missing when Malik started throwing things away. “Leonardo told me that I shouldn’t get involved. Altair said I should know him better. I thought Altair wasn’t going to be there. I would have told Leonardo not to go if I knew.”

“Why would you have told him that?” Mother asked. The question did not require an answer. Mother looked at his face because she-knew like he-knew that it was a surprise to _nobody_ that Altair had done what he had. Kadar was in the backyard (after three in the morning) shouting at him about he was afraid to tell like he thought Malik was just scared that Altair wouldn’t _love_ him. 

Maybe Malik thought that was the worst of it ten-days-ago but he knew (even then) the way he knew _now_ that this was not _out-of-character_. He was looking at his fingers picking at lint on his pants leg rather look at his mother. “I’m so angry at both of them,” he said. “Leonardo isn’t any more innocent.”

“I know Leonardo,” Mother said softly. “I sat with him at our table. I spoke to him about many things. I saw his face when we were not sure that you would live. I saw him look at you when you couldn’t bother to see it. If he is not innocent in this, he will admit his guilt. Will _Altair_ do the same?”

No. Altair would protest. Altair would complain. Altair would argue his innocence. 

“I’m so angry,” Malik said again. “He knew. _Leonardo_ had to have _known_ what he was doing. Mom, you think you know him but you don’t know him the way I do. You don’t know how _deliberate_ and _calculated_ he is. Whatever happened was what he thought-most-likely to work and he wasn’t going to stop until it did—and _why_?” Malik shouted. “ _Why_ would he want that to happen?” He motioned at the computer. Then he looked at his Mother and her expression was pinched-pain and sadness. She ran her fingers through the longer hair on the top of his head to push it away from his forehead and kissed him there. 

Her cheek rested against his head for a moment and then she leaned back again. “This man you love, why do you love him?”

Oh-because— 

“He doesn’t understand the consequences of his actions,” Malik said. “But he is a good person.”

“A good man does not do what this one did,” Mother said. “I started reading your blog. I did see the change in my son when he came home late from prom. How old was that man when he decided you were available to him?”

Well that was a whole line of thought Malik did not need his Mother following. “He was twenty,” he said.

Her eyebrows lifted and Malik smiled at the _insistent_ disapproval that threatened to slash across her mouth in an expression usually reserved for _criminals_. Mother turned to look at the computer and then back at him again. “Why are you smiling? You have given me no reason to believe this man is _good_ at all!”

Malik laughed because her disapproval was so sharp and so intense. It was a mirror for the anger in his chest and the bitter relief of seeing it mirrored somewhere (and for such a small crime, relatively speaking, against the much larger ones Altair had committed) else eased off the burden of the anger. “He can be,” Malik assured her. “He really can.”

“I will believe it if you show it to me,” she said. Then she waved her hand in the air. “You cannot show it to me. You deserve better.” 

Malik laughed harder at the words. Mother frowned more severely. 

\--

> FROM: Leonardo [NotDicaprio@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Before you read this, I feel I would be remiss in not offering the following brief explanation and apology. The truth is that I did not expect to fall in love with you. In fact, up to the moment it became clear that the level of attachment and affection I held for you was not matched and returned was the first moment I realized how serious this affliction had become. You can imagine how that shocked me given that in the time we have been unintentionally ‘dating’ we have both seen quite a lot of other people. In fact, I cannot recall a single man that has graced your bed that I have felt even the slightest animosity toward. (Except the blonde man that assisted you in defiling my dorm bed. I feel that goes without saying.) I thought I was genuinely unattached to you. I felt that our friendship was strong and that our sexual compatibility was satisfying and nothing more. With this recent discovery, I seem to have managed to convince myself that I have any authority over your life, that my feelings about your decisions should be more important than they are and that I—not you—have superior right to pass judgements on anyone that might want to form a similar or more lasting relationship with you.
> 
> I am not sorry that I was able to say the words that have been choking my brain since I discovered this man has stolen you from me even before I realized that I wanted you. I did not say anything that I do not believe. I am not sorry that I hurt him because it was very well thought out and very intentional.
> 
> What I am sorry that I have done is intentionally and maliciously disregard your feelings. I am sorry that in my quest to stake my pre-existing claim I have reduced you to a thing that can be won through combat. In my haste, I forgot that you are a person. I forgot that, despite how much I wish it were not true, this man is genuinely important to you. Even worse, I forgot that you are my very dear friend—one of the best and most loyal I have ever had the pleasure to meet—and that rather than align myself with your wishes, rather than secure your interests, I have purposefully set myself opposite them while using your name and my own selfish hurt feelings to justify myself. If given the opportunity, I would very much like to try to mend the damage I have done.
> 
> This is what happened:

Kadar was sitting across from Malik folding a piece of paper up into a paper football. It was a game they had played a lot as kids when they were stuck in the quiet room of Mother’s friends’ houses. He had forgotten the folds necessary to make it correctly but Malik was preoccupied reading him the exact-account-of-events (as written by Leonardo). 

“Well, if you want to get your face dented that seems like exactly the way to do it,” Kadar said quietly. “I can’t believe he actually convinced Ezio to have sex with him.”

Malik wasn’t amused. “Kadar,” he said in that tone of voice that meant the very worst things. “If I were smart, I would never talk to Altair again.” Then he rubbed his forehead as he grimaced at the screen. 

“You have to ask him what happened too,” Kadar said.

“Because Leonardo is such a liar?”

Kadar flicked the poorly folded paper football at Malik and it hit him on the back of his knuckles. He tried to catch it but missed so he had to pick it up and throw it at him. “Because he deserves to have his say. He deserves to know why you’re angry at him. If you’re done with him, be done. But he deserves to know why.” Then Kadar leaned back in his chair and shoved his hands down into his pockets. “He didn’t attack Leonardo unprovoked, Malik. He hasn’t ever attacked anyone unprovoked. His family taught him to solve things with violence. It’s a bad excuse—I mean it’s a really bad excuse—but you can’t be the voice of reason and rehabilitation for the guy for a couple years and then abandon him without anything. There are reasons you’re still here, isn’t there? Reasons that you love this guy? Besides his giant penis and his amazing abs?”

“If he was standing in our kitchen and I told him that I was a man and he was gay for loving me what would he do?” Malik asked.

“React poorly,” Kadar said. “But he wouldn’t _hit_ you. Your problem is that you’re in love with Leonardo too.”

Malik’s face was so instantly in denial of the very idea that it bordered on looking like the idea was _revolting_. “No I’m not.”

Kadar did not argue that point with him. “You’re underestimating him. He would still love you. That’s what I’m saying. He wouldn’t care you have a penis.” Then he picked up the paper football again and tried to hold it up with one finger and flick it with a finger from the other hand. “Can you do this one handed?”

“Maybe. Probably be easier if we built a stand for it.” Then he looked at the computer again and sighed. 

“I’m not telling you to forgive him,” Kadar said. That was important to note. “You can’t forgive someone that doesn’t apologize. I’ve seen a lot of his apologies and I know you think they’re funny but none of them are apologies. You’re worried he’s going to be abusive and not love you but you should probably be more worried about the fact that he’s convinced that he’s never wrong.”

Malik growled at the computer. Then he closed it and set it to the side. “Don’t we have twist ties in the garbage bags? I bet we could make a stand out of that.”

“We do,” Kadar said and then he got up to go get them.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> What happened was he wanted to fight and I wanted to fight and we fought. I insulted him a few times and he called me short and said that he was good at fucking and asked me why I didn’t like dick—thanks for telling him about that—and then made sure to let me know he’s the one that saved your life. 
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  Tell me what happened. Don’t leave anything out.

Altair took the bandages off when Maria went back to shooting her movie. Turned sideways he could look over his shoulder and see the laceration. The doctor had told him it was mostly superficial and said the worst of it seemed to be the part of it that had been _ripped_ open most likely by something he’d done after the initial injury. (Something like grabbing Leonardo by the hair and bashing his head against his leg.) The sutures were close enough together that the scar should not be significant as long as he didn’t rip them out while they were healing. It didn’t hurt as much now as it had for the past several days. (The travelling from Italy to here had been an unholy sort of hell.)

He stopped looking at it long enough to check his phone and after assuring himself there were no new messages (from anyone) went out to find something to watch on TV. It was a simple distraction but better than staring at his phone waiting for the next person to show up and tell him off.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Thank you for telling me. Stop being stubborn and take something for pain
> 
> I’m not feeling forgiving at the moment but I appreciate your apology
> 
> Don’t you dare apologize to that man
> 
> What happened?
> 
> I don’t feel like explaining.

Malik sent the texts first because they were far easier to manage than the e-mail that went like this:

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I feel like the important distinction to make at this moment is that while I am _very angry_ about the events at the villa, it is not anger that motivates me to say what I am about to say. 
> 
> Recently, my Mother asked me what it is that I loved about you. The circumstances around her asking this were most likely what you would imagine. She noted that I’ve been upset pretty consistently since you decided that this fight was more important to you than anything else. She is relatively new to knowing anything at all about you. Thus far your resume does not meet with her approval. Imagine how much more incriminating it was when she asked me what I loved about you and I was having trouble finding anything in the long list of things I know about you that would impress my Mother. The fact is that I couldn’t think of anything.
> 
> That is unfair because there are many things about you that are most certainly worthwhile and loveable. You are funny—unintentionally or intentionally. You are very intelligent. You are more loyal than any other single person I have ever met. I find your arrogance to be charming when I should be repulsed by it. These are things that are hard to explain when there is no proof of them.
> 
> More significant and perhaps more telling of your deeper personality is the fact that you sincerely do not understand why anyone should be angry with you. Whether it is a symptom of the people that raised you, an unfortunate side-effect of your denial or a deep character flaw that cannot be overlooked: you seem to honestly believe you were absolutely entitled to do what you did. I feel that even if you have been superficially deceiving yourself and the people around you that you should understand this is not true. 
> 
> I will not call you out on this. Your family has already seen to it that this never graces the pages of my blog. I will not counsel you on this. I will not explain to you what a _man_ your age should already know. 
> 
> I have nothing left to say to you outside of the confines of the Sett if you cannot answer the question that I asked you in my previous mail.
> 
> Tell me what happened, Altair. Tell me why this happened.

Altair’s chuckle had no humor in it. He tipped his head back and dropped his phone on the table he had been walking past when the alert informed him he had a new e-mail. He continued to the fridge, pulled it open and found it empty and slammed it shut again. He pressed his face against it and beat the side of his hand against the metal front of the stupid thing. “Fuck,” he said to (nobody).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is now a masterlist for this fic: [at my tumblr](http://bewareofchris.tumblr.com/post/122181756567/sass-badger-versus-son-of-no-one-masterlist).


	49. Chapter 49

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]
> 
> What are the details you need to know? Do you need to know what he said or how I hit him? How does it help you to know any of that when what actually matters is the fact that both of us wanted the fight and got what we wanted? 
> 
> I’m sure he told you every little detail. I’m sure you’ve made up your mind about everything. I don’t see why I have to spend my time trying to provide a justification when everyone already knows why it happened. 
> 
> He called me worthless. I beat his face in. That’s what happened.

Maria took him out to dinner like a woman walking a dog. Altair went because there was no alternative. She stood him in the bedroom of this not-home she occupied while shooting and buttoned his shirt while he stood there watching her quick fingers slip the tiny buttons through the holes. Her lip was caught between her teeth while she assessed the look of the two of them standing next to one another. 

“I do know how to dress myself,” he said.

“I’ve seen your T-shirt collection,” Maria said. She picked up a tie off the bed and draped it over his shoulder. “I’m sure that’s hugely popular with your fans that want you to fuck Sass but the critics that care about me are somewhat more superficial.” She switched the first time for another one and did it again until she found one that she liked. “I can’t actually tie this, can you manage?”

Altair could have managed to put on his own shirt but Maria insisted that she do it so he not mess up his stitches. He fixed the tie and sat on the bed so he could put on the shoes that she picked out for him. She put on her heels and motioned him to stand up next to her again. He straightened his back and lifted his head because Grandmother always said, _don’t slouch, Altair. Slouching is ugly_. They were a good couple in the mirror. Her pretty complexion and dark hair made her face look dramatic-old-Hollywood glamorous. “I like my T-shirts.”

“Like them indoors only,” Maria said. 

But out in public, they were smiling in between bites of food, searching for something to talk about. Maria was an Oscar-worthy actress with a mindful of lines and Altair was well-known for frowning at men with cameras. When his expression cracked, she kicked him under the table and he smiled at her all-over-again. 

“Fine!” Maria shouted at him when they were back in the apartment and she was kicking off her heels. Her dress was slim-fit to her body. Her hands were up in the air with the clutch purse she’d been carrying all throughout the meal gripped so tight in one hand her knuckles were bleached-white-over-bone. 

“Fine what?” Altair asked. He pulled the tie loose and undid the top buttons of the shirt. The couch was closest (and relatively easy on his still-healing-back). He sat down with more care than he felt at the moment and watched Maria spin on her heels to glare at him. “Why are you even mad at me?”

“Why am I even mad at you?” Maria repeated. She shouted a noise at him that could only be described as a growl. “Because you are a child!”

“That makes you a pedophile.”

“I’m not _actually_ fucking you.” Maria reached behind her back to pull the zipper of her dress down and turned with a shake of her head to stalk off toward the bedroom. There was a series of bangs and thuds before she reappeared wearing a camisole and a pair of panties that weren’t see-thru (at least). She dropped into the chair opposite the couch and said, “out with it then, what the hell is wrong?”

“Nothing,” Altair said, “I don’t see why I have to be your stupid poodle. I thought we were convincing enough when we just got caught kissing once in a while.”

Maria rolled her eyes. “I’ve explained this—” 

“Yeah, well _explain it again_ ,” Altair shouted at her. “Because this,” he motioned at his whole body and the well-fit-clothes oh-so-carefully chosen to make Maria look good, “is not actually who I am!”

“Who the fuck cares?” Maria asked. She lifted a hand from the arm of the chair it was resting on and let it drop again. Her shoulders lifted and dropped in time with the motion. Her voice wasn’t loud-or-shouting but soft-as-feathers. “This isn’t who I am. Have you forgotten that? I don’t want your dick. But I have to act like I do. I don’t want to have to talk about how incredible I find you when you are nothing but a spoiled boy who discovered a gym one day. But I must, because I don’t want my secrets to be public property. I don’t to be _here_ , do you understand? In this _moment_ , in this _exact place_ where there’s no escape.”

“That’s your fault.”

Oh-and-Maria’s eyes slid shut as her head dipped down. She nodded with a sigh. When she looked up, her face was painted-pretty but there was no vibrant life behind it. There was no fight in her at the moment but a shimmer of defeat in her eyes. “It is my fault. I know that it is. I built this trap and now I must live in it.” She tipped her head when she said, “what a different man you would be if you had that same wisdom.”

“Why the hell can’t you women just say what you mean?” Altair asked. Because the nature of the disaster he was in was the fragile-stack of half-said-things. It was the sensation in his chest that he was trying to hang-on-to a phantom and then there was Sass with her fucking _self-importance_ and her endless God-damned- _arrogance_ asking _him_ what he’d done. Telling him there was no worth in talking to him if he couldn’t answer a question the _right way_. “It’s not that hard. You think I don’t know what kind of fucking bullshit I’m in? My whole family thinks I’m a brutish child. You think it. I’m dating a person that doesn’t exist—except I’m not sure I’m dating because she wants to be my _friend_ and then there’s her dick fuck buddy who wants me to know how _unworthy_ I am. And _you_ that can’t cope with the idea that someone might know you’re a dyke.”

“Faggot,” Maria said. Her eyebrow lifted ever so slightly.

Altair was standing before he was aware that he was even going to move. Every muscle in his body was tensed at the word. “Don’t call me that,” he hissed at her.

“Cocksucker?” Maria asked. She didn’t get up but look at his hands, at the tight curl of them and back up at his face. “Are you going to hit me?”

“No.”

But she did stand up then, slid out of the seat and up to her feet. She wasn’t close enough to touch but near enough that the agitating closeness made him want to step backward. Her eyes were looking-down not-up and she said (oh so sweetly, oh so quietly), “ _liar._ ” Then she turned around and walked away from him. “Remember to take your pain medicine before you go to sleep.”

The door closed with a quiet click and Altair tipped his head back and let a breath out through his nose. He looked at his hands, coiled up in fists, and straightened them out again. 

\--

BestofThree: @horse said I could share this masterpiece he made for me. (47m ago)

horse: @bestofthree, I do remember saying it is not a masterpiece at the time. (41m ago)

Shirley-Templar: is that a replica of the Rialto Bridge made out of beer cans, popsicle sticks and Dixie cups? (39m ago)

Bestofthree: @shirley-templar, yes it is. If that is not impressive enough for you to consider, he built it after we drank all of that beer. (35m ago)

horse: @Bestofthree, but you are tiny in comparison to me. (20m ago)

BestofThree: @horse, no more modesty from you. I mean it. (19m ago)

NotYourBrother: @horse, what did we tell you about lying to nice people? There isn’t a humble bone in your body. Take responsibility for your own genius. (18m ago)

horse: @notyourbrother, of course I apologize, I built that bridge while drunk enough to believe I was on a gondola under it being sung to by a swarthy Italian gondolier. I am basically a god (1m ago)

School was starting in the morning (again). Kadar was laying on his bed (in the dark) thinking unkind thoughts about the world in general while he tried to force his whole body to shut down into hibernation mode. His book bag was packed, his clothes were picked out and his summer reading had been thoroughly finished (for the first time in his life). There was nothing left to feel unprepared about and yet he could shake the nagging anxiety in his chest.

There was a thump against his wall too soft to be mistaken for an accident followed by another and a much gentler tap. Years-ago-now when they were children-still and Mother’s disappointment sent them up to their rooms to sit on their beds and think over their mistakes, they’d made a code of gentle thumps and taps between their rooms. Back-in-those-days, there was more to the code but all that had survived was the three-thumps for _are you okay_ and Kadar lifting his hand up over his head to strike his knuckles against the wall in two quick raps for _yes I’m fine_.

His phone buzzed on his bedside table and it said, _so go to sleep_.

Kadar sighed and nodded at his dumb brother. “Fine,” he said too-quietly to be heard through the wall. 

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> So, are you ignoring me too?
> 
> I felt very tempted to just now.
> 
> Why are they pissed at me?
> 
> Because you assaulted a guest in their home after you were very specifically asked not to?
> 
> Because you went there with the intention of assaulting the guest?
> 
> Federico’s done worse
> 
> Federico wouldn’t fight a man over a woman in his Mother’s house.
> 
> You got off easy.
> 
> Yeah. So easy

Most of his family (including Lucy who apparently employed the same coping mechanism as Sass) was ignoring him simultaneously by distance and unreturned texts (not that he’d sent many). It was impressive to him (in whatever ways were left after aggravation and frustration were accounted for) that Maria managed to ignore him even more completely than people who weren’t even close enough to matter. It dragged on a day and a half before Altair left the stagnant apartment without _permission_ (not that he would have asked it before, but now it seemed offensively disobedient). 

He was wearing a T-shirt and his jeans, walking with his head ducked and his hands at his sides. Other than the stinging, itching pain in the still-healing gash and the conspicuous sensation that he was being watch, the freedom of the open streets was much need relief from the burden of captivity. Altair stretched his legs set himself in the direction of the nearest place that seemed like it would sell food.

His efforts took him to a pub with a mediocre mid-day crowd (clearly unimpressed to have him interrupt their chewing). Altair didn’t smile and that seemed to suit everyone just fine. Lunch was a filling but uninspired fare. He brushed up on his German while he talked to the waitress that had gone from assuming he was a bored-and-unwanted foreigner to smiling at him as she hovered by the table and told him about the things-to-do-around the area.

Altair fell into flirting and almost ( _almost_ ) forgot he was supposed to have a girlfriend. “Thank you Hilde,” he said when he left her and she told him to make sure he came back soon. It was late-afternoon and he spent a few hours walking off the stomach full of food, memorizing the layout of the streets and letting his thoughts spin-and-spin in endless-endless circles. 

By chance, he found a bench and a patch of grass where a flock of birds were picking at bugs and bird seed tossed out by well-meaning locals. He sat there with his feet spread far apart and his elbows on his knees. He was holding his phone in between the flats of his palms. 

He was thinking-thinking (something like):

Grandma in the hothouse with her tropical flowers, her delicate white fingers touching the fine petals of wild flowers. His Father in the sunroom at the back of the house, wrapped in blankets, looking at the snow falling beyond the frosted glass. His face and his hands and his hair had been so much darker than Altair’s. But sometimes (if he concentrated long enough and _hard_ enough) Altair could remember the way the thick hair that grew on the back of his Father’s hands had felt under his fingers. He could remember the hum of his Father’s voice—an indistinct sound but a definite feeling against his back—as he told him about the world where he’d grown up. Altair thought of his Grandfather as the intermittent traveler, found out in the gardens on hot-hot-summer days. 

Grandfather was a stick of a man, straight up-and-down, an oddly familiar stranger that wore old-man’s button downs and brown loafers. He carried a flask wherever he went and almost never stopped to speak to little boys. 

“Go back to your Grandmother,” was all Grandfather ever said to him.

But it was _Grandmother_ in her office with her stocking-feet crossed at the ankle under the desk and her stacks of papers spread out over the top. Her pen was a sword that slashed at the paper, her sweetly-pink lips a gash on her unsmiling face. Altair kissed her cheek in the evenings when she was overcome with work and she said, “dream sweet dreams, dear heart.”

And it was his Grandmother that looked under his bed for monsters. It was his Grandmother that sat in the kitchen him when the nightmares drove him in search of cookies. Altair was a stupid kid saying things like, “but you won’t leave me?”

Grandmother touched his hand and kissed his head but she was vicious-not-kind and she said, “I suppose, as long as you remember someone, they can’t really leave you. But no, Altair. I won’t always be here. I will leave you. Everyone dies and it seems that sooner or later, in one way or another, everyone leaves.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t know what you want from me. That’s not an attempt to get out of it. I just don’t know what you want. 

When Malik was in high school, his over-worked, under-paid, excessively stressed English teacher would sit at her desk with her fingers rubbing circles at her temples to ease the tension associated with watching innumerable teenagers fail to grasp simple grammar and literary concepts. While she sat there she muttered the serenity prayer under her breath. He was sitting close enough to her desk to hear the words on endless repeat throughout his time in that class. 

The words had come back to him frequently throughout his life. The mantra was an easy-enough idea (once the idea of any deity was removed from it). It came to him not in the first moments after reading the (second) e-mail from Altair. First it had been hot-rage and frustration that growled out of his throat in the silent, empty interior of his Mother’s house. His lunch dishes rattled on the table when he knocked his hand against the surface of it.

“I want you to fucking realize what you did wrong,” he said to the screen. “You miserable little prick!” 

Serenity (or even the desire for it) did not come to him naturally. It had to break through the anger and frustration. There was no relief when the anger eased but the unpleasant knowledge that while Malik’s own contribution to Altair’s inability to think for himself was small in comparison to the many other influences in his life, it was not insignificant. He wanted to send back a detailed ledger of the things he wanted from the man and only refrained because of the sad knowledge that it would do more harm than good. 

\--

son-of-no-one: RT “@aquilady, what’s up with you and Sass?” so far as I know, nothing. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT “@sandyclaws, do you still do parkour?” I do but not as consistently as I did in the beginning. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT “@alltiear, ok but is @son-of-no-one **actually** dating @mariathorpe? We see the pap pictures but what proof do we have?” that’s an interesting question. When you see couples on the street— (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: do you walk up to them and ask for proof that they are actually dating? If one of your friends says they’ve started seeing a guy do you demand to go on their dates? (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: When that doesn’t satisfy, do you ask to sit on the bed with them while they have sex? I’m asking so I understand the proof you think you require to reassure yourself about who I’m dating. (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: Because the truth is, regardless of what the internet or the gossip magazines have to say about it. I am dating @MariaThorpe and neither of us owe you a damn bit of proof.

Altair had written the words ‘fuck you’ on a sheet of paper two hours ago and hadn’t moved from the spot. His pen had dragged across the single-sheet of paper and onto another. The lines had curled and twisted, had gotten shaky, unsteady and strange before evening out again. The chaos of scribbles had evolved into little men with exaggerated faces running across the paper. He doodled and scribbled and wasn’t even aware that he’d been drawing (without moving) for two-straight-hours until Maria closed the door behind her.

He was in the middle of sketching another of his tragically flawed little men (running from a lion at the moment) when Maria’s hand slid across his back. Her body fit against his (soft and not heavy) and her chin pressed against his shoulder. “What?’ he asked.

“Thank you,” she said softly. Then she tipped her head and kissed his temple. Her hand slid through his hair and he looked up at her. The stress lines on her face were looser now than they had been that morning. She went to the fridge and pulled out a beer with a grateful groan before turning around and holding it out to him. “Could you open this?”

Altair twisted the cap off and bent it in two before handing it back to her. She took the beer and the cap and leaned on the other side of the small breakfast bar. Her long-long fingers pulled at the pieces of paper that he’d spent his afternoon scribbling on. Her eyebrows twitched and then relaxed. “What?” he asked.

“Nothing,” she said. She took a long drink of the beer and then set it down. Her tongue slid across her lips and she cocked her head to the side. “I know that you’re angry. I don’t know why. I would listen if you wanted to talk.”

“I don’t,” Altair said. He finished the long-long-nose on the poor little man that was going to get mauled by the lion. He gave him a snaggletooth and a hairy mole to go with his unfortunate nose sticking away from his face. “Thanks.”

Maria nodded. She took another drink. “What about sex?” She turned the beer bottle on the counter top as she looked at him plainly. “I usually have a few very trustworthy friends involved on every movie I’m involved with but my usual girl is upset about you. You can eat me out and I’ll give you a hand job?”

Altair stopped sketching to look at her fully. It wasn’t the first time she’d made the offer but it was the first time he’d even let himself consider it before. He didn’t trust-her and he couldn’t figure out why (not really). It bordered on _embarrassing_ to think of sex with her. She wasn’t aroused-by his-body and he was desperately attracted to hers (especially now, especially after so long). “Are we going to kiss? Are there rules about where I can touch you?”

“We can kiss. I like kissing you. You can touch me anywhere as long as you don’t try to get your dick in me. Even if I were into that, I wouldn’t be into _that_.” She motioned down through the counter to the approximate location of his crotch. Then she smiled at him. “We can watch porn?”

“Lesbian porn?” Altair asked. 

“Any porn but straight porn,” Maria said. Then she tipped the beer bottle up and finished it off. 

Altair shrugged (and that, by far, was the least committed way he had ever accept a sex proposal from anyone. He put down his pen and stretched out the curled-up-pinch in his fingers. “Bed?”

“Yes.” Then she slapped the empty bottle against the counter and reached across to grab him by the hand and drag him off his stool. “You better be as good as they say.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I will be returning on the 9th
> 
> I was wondering if a brief visit would be completely unwelcome.
> 
> You should visit. Mother is constantly worried about you
> 
> Oh. Good.

Malik’s sense of hospitality was still (somewhat) lacking. While he might have assured Leonardo that he was welcome (even wanted) before, he was satisfied that he’d managed to tell him he should visit.

“Leonardo’s thinking about visiting for a few days around the ninth,” Malik reported to his Mother. It was evident (from his own voice) her expression that his opinion on that news was not as favorable she might have liked. 

“If you do not want to see him, you should tell him so,” Mother said.

“You want to see him.” He knew that wasn’t a good enough reason even before her lips flattened and her hands pressed the book she was reading shut. But Malik didn’t want to argue motivations or intentions. He didn’t want to _think_ about the unraveling mess of things he hadn’t sorted out how to feel about yet. 

“That is not fair,” Mother said softly. “He is not coming to see me.”

“Yeah well, fair is a little less relevant now than it was before.” Then he motioned toward the stairs. “I’m going to—” (Where? Bed? Nap? His room? To pout?) “Up. Stairs.” Then he went and Mother was kind enough to let him.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Seeing how what I think has not actually mattered up to this point in our relationship I see no reason that it should start to matter now. But by all means, let us put on our public faces and pretend like everything is exactly as it has always been. 
> 
> This Friday. 3 GMT.
> 
> _S. Badger wrote:_  
>  I would like to proceed with our Fun Facts Friday feature as planned. Which Friday and what time would be best for you?

Running hurt Altair’s back. The jostle of his body aggravated the still-tender and still-hearing parts of the gash. Every footfall was a fresh pinch of irritation. A mile-ago he had been flinching at the strike of his foot against the ground and the pump of his arm pulling at the wound. A mile before that he had been working out what speed was-best for making-it-least-painful. He was three-miles into a run that might (never) end and there was no reason (really) to care about the pink-red-pain. It was a nice sort of company to have, a consistent reminder of the present situation and the futility of trying to outrun it.

It was an echo of Lucy’s anger.

It was a vivid re-enactment of Claudia’s name-calling.

It was a far kinder reiteration of Giovanni’s polite warning.

“Fuck,” Altair growled at himself and forced his legs to speed-up-again. There was sweat drenched through his shirt, soaked through his hair and slick all along his legs. When he’d left the apartment that moment it had not been with the intention of running-for-miles and yet here was, jogging along a part of this city he hadn’t seen before, taking minimal note of the street signs as he passed them. 

It was anger (not loneliness, not fear, not worry, not guilt) that brought the snarl of noise to his throat and his own stupidity that let it break through his clenched jaw. He dropped out of a run to turn and kick the base of a street sign. His whole body was _humming_ (like _throbbing_ ) as he tipped his head back and dug his fingers into his hipbones. He wanted to rip through his skin and bleed out the half-understood things that were battering him from the inside. 

There was sweat on his lips, sweat dripping out of his hair, sweat slicked down the whole of his face that his damp-hands couldn’t wipe away. His shirt was wet-through and inadequate for drying anything. 

“Sir,” a voice from the side said. A shopkeeper (a woman) was pointing at his left side. “Are you okay?”

Altair lifted his arm (and shouldn’t have) and tipped his head down to look at the stringy-red-lines of blood soaked through his shirt. He wiped his lower face with one hand and nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “Thanks.” 

The shopkeeper did not seem the least bit convinced about his assertion of being okay but she didn’t argue the point with him (at least). Instead she retreated back inside her shop and stood on the other side of the big-glass-window staring at him with absolutely no attempt at subtlety. He ignored her and lifted his shirt up to see how significant the damage was. The deepest part of the gash was the only part that hadn’t already healed over. There were two stitches there that had pulled through the skin and (at least as far as he could tell) only two tiny gaping parts of the wound to worry about. He pulled his shirt back down and looked back toward the way he’d come. 

There was no part of his body that wanted to go back to the dreary silence in Maria’s apartment so he set his feet in the direction away from it and started jogging again. 

\--

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> I hope you are the cousin.
> 
> I had to take this idiot to the hospital to have his stitches redone.
> 
> I am Desmond.
> 
> Is he okay?
> 
> He is asleep.
> 
> Tell him to call me

Lucy was angry. She had been angry since Desmond got back from Italy. It persisted around her in a cloud that he couldn’t _tolerate_. Childhood had taught him (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that anger preceded outburst but perhaps even worse than the threat of explosive anger was the slow-burning-stagnant rage. It festered in Desmond’s chest until he couldn’t shake the sensation of being smothered.

“What happened?” Lucy said when Desmond put the phone back on the counter next to the stove. She was sitting at the table supposedly looking for ‘something fun to do this weekend’ but the look of violent boredom undermined any attempt on her part to find enough interest to find anything to do. 

“I don’t know,” Desmond said. “He did something stupid, got hurt, went to the hospital. I didn’t ask for details. It was Maria.”

There was a smack behind him, the flat of a hand against a wooden table top and then Lucy was scoffing as her chair creaked and she said, “how do you deal with it?” she asked. “Because I’ve been trying to figure out how to deal with it for days and I can’t. I want to fly there and punch him in his stupid head and tell him to stop being _like this_. I want to-to—”

Desmond turned around and hovered in the safe space beyond her reach. “Make it better?”

She stretched out her hand toward him, pointed at his chest once-twice like that was what she meant-but-couldn’t say. “Yes,” she said at last. “How do you deal with him? Because I’ve seen like these—these _glimpses_ of this pathetic puppy and then he’s always such an asshole. At the same time I hate him and I’m glad he’s suffering, I just want to make it better.”

“My experience is,” Desmond said, “we’re making it worse. When Grandma was dying, she asked me to take care of him—Ezio and me. She said that Altair was still very young and that he would need us to help him. She told us to protect him. Look at what we did,” he motioned his hand outward, as if he could pick the direction to Germany with one random swing of his arm. 

“He’s hurting himself,” Lucy said.

“He’s twenty two years old,” Desmond said. “I— I’d do anything for him. Anything that I thought would help. I have. I’ve been doing whatever he needs me to do for so long I don’t even think about it anymore.” Then he leaned back against the counter and looked at the floor, not at her. He rubbed the faded-spot on his jaw and sighed. “I can’t help right now. He has to deal with this—with what he did, why he did it, why everyone is angry at him. If I go near him, I’m going to make it better. I’m going to _take away_ his chance to face this.”

Lucy got up and came over to slide up against his body. Her arms hugged around his chest and her head rested against his shoulders. “I’m sorry,” she said. 

Yeah, well it wasn’t her fault. “It’ll work out,” Desmond said. 

\--

> [Video feed starts with Altair sitting at a table with a spread of papers in front of him. He is wearing a plain black T-shirt. Maria sits next to him wearing a pretty red top and holding a cup of coffee.]
> 
> Altair: hello, welcome to the first fun fact Friday. I’m Altair—you should know that if you’re here and this is Maria Thorpe. 
> 
> Maria: hey.
> 
> Altair: Maria is going to help me read the questions because there are—so _many_ of them. Sass is going to answer your questions on twitter today while we work out a better solution for the chat. So let’s get to it: first question?
> 
> Maria: [stirs up pile of papers before picking one at random, holds it up and reads it to herself before reading outloud.] “What is Altair’s father’s name?” 
> 
> Altair: [looks at phone] Sass says, Umar Ibn-La’Ahad. Yeah that’s right. That wasn’t even hard. Pick a better question. [Looks at Maria while she rolls her eyes.]
> 
> Maria: I didn’t know your father’s name. 
> 
> Altair: Well he’s dead, it’s not relevant.
> 
> Maria: Ok, second question. “how much does Altair weigh?”
> 
> Altair: well that’s rude. [checks phone, snorts] Sass says an educated guess is around one hundred and seventy or one hundred and eight pounds. That’s like eighty kilograms for everyone not in the US. That’s close enough to be right. Next.
> 
> Maria: You weight eighty kilograms?
> 
> Altair: Yeah, I think I was one seventy the last time I weighed myself? That’s like seventy seven or eight kilograms? So it’s close enough.
> 
> Maria: I thought it would be more. Right. Next question. “How often does Altair wash his hair?” Who is sending these questions?
> 
> Altair: [shrugs, checks phone], Sass says—every day when I’m at home, every other day when I’m not. The thing is, we actually had a whole argument about shampoo and that’s why she knows the answer. 
> 
> Maria: I am not surprised. Should I keep reading or is there really no point?
> 
> Altair: She doesn’t know everything. Keep reading.

“And they say you are a poor actor,” Maria said when the hour was up and there was no more need to keep their smiles in place. She had put her cup away twenty minutes ago and dragged a trash bin over to sweep all of the papers into off the table in one easy motion of her arm. “You were very good. I believed you.”

Altair balled his hand up into a fist and beat the side of it into the table until the decorative candles in the center were rolling off the side and the sharp-and-dull pain in his hand was spreading up his arm. He jerked up to his feet even as Maria settled one hand on her hip to shake her head at him. “What?” he shouted at her. “What the hell do you _want_ from me?”

“Presently, more maturity than you seem capable of maintaining.”

“Ha-ha-ha-ha!” he shouted at her. “This isn’t funny. This isn’t a game. _I_ didn’t _do_ this to myself! This isn’t _my trap_ that I’m caught in. No wisdom required.” He turned to leave but the sound of Maria’s sincere-laugh drew him back.

She was standing there with her hand out in the air next to her body and the trash bin hanging from her other hand. The laugh bit off with a bitter set of her teeth tight together and she threw the trash bin at him. It hit his arm and clattered to the ground. “You didn’t do this?” she repeated (without shouting). “Who did?”

“You!” Altair shouted. “You’re the one that asked me to do this! Fucking—Sass. You fucking women, you must love seeing how you can fuck over idiots like me.”

Maria was shaking her head, half turned away from him with her tongue between her teeth and a humorless smirk dragging at the corners of her mouth. She was half-resolved to ignore him (that was evident from the way she looked back at the kitchen and not at him) but then her hand slapped against her thigh and she turned back to look at him. “I am not your family. I am not this—person on the internet that you give such power to. I don’t care half as much about you as they do. So allow me to tell you what they seem to be simply too polite to manage, Altair. You are too fucking old to behave the way you do. Do you want to know why what you did in Italy is wrong?”

“Yeah, sure, explain it to me because as far as I can see—”

“Shut up,” Maria cut him off. “I’ll tell you but you’ll keep your mouth shut. You don’t care. That’s what you did. You care about nothing more than you care about your own egocentric view of the world. That is why they call you a child, Altair. Because you have the ability to reason, logic and view the world the same as a child who thinks every pink elephant must belong to him since he has one in his crib. You _didn’t_ care about Sass. You _didn’t_ care that you hurt that man. You _don’t_ care because you want everyone to _apologize_ to you about how _hurt_ your _god damned_ feelings are! _You_ fucked this up. You hurt people that _didn’t deserve it_ and rather than admit it, you’re just— This,” she motioned at all of his body.

“He wanted that fight!” Altair shouted.

Maria screamed at him. With her hands stretched out in front of her and her fingers curling inward like the curdle of her scream. She screamed and then threw her hands up. “Fine.”

“Fine!” he shouted back.

She was shaking her head as she shoved past him and went to the bedroom. The door slamming was louder than the scream had been and Altair wanted to kick the wall but thought-better-of-it. He bent down and picked up the candle off the floor instead, threw it as hard as he could at the wall under the window. Then he went out to the couch to sit on it and think viciously-unhappy-things about _Maria_.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> If it ever comes up as a question, my greatest hidden talent is getting rid of people. I’ve done it almost the whole of my life. I was able to drive off all kinds of people. Probably hasn’t come up before but when I went to live with Mama Maria, she really did try. She put so much effort into making me comfortable in her house. She offered to talk to me and she was consistent with the rules my Grandmother always insisted on. She took me to England the first year after Grandma’s death because we went every year. Mama Maria tried so hard to make it work. 
> 
> I knew she was trying and I didn’t care. I didn’t want her to care about me. I didn’t want to have to put up with her concern and her attempts. She wasn’t my Mother. She wasn’t even close to her. So I called her names. I didn’t do what she asked. When she took me to England I made myself puke on her. I embarrassed her in public. I picked on Claudia at her house. I told lies about her sons. I flunked out of the private school she put me in. When she tried to talk to me I rolled my eyes at her and I walked away. I remember, she said to me, I will not give up. I will not stop trying to make you see that we are your family too.
> 
> But she did, because I’m very good at it. I’m very good at getting rid of people.

Kadar was doing homework while Malik was working on the posts for the Sett. It was a joyless task without the expectation of commentary (or assistance) of the subject. He had been leaning his cheek against his hand, searching through page-after-page of pictures of Altair that the internet had dug up for him to glance through. He skimmed through recent mentions of his name and found that, aside from going out and being photographed with Maria, he had done nothing worthy of note. 

“Ignoring him not doing so well?” Kadar asked.

“No,” Malik said. He pushed the computer away from himself and tipped his head back so it was resting against the high back of the chair. “I thought it would be—easier? I’m so angry at him. I’m _furious_ at him. He did this. It’s not even the first time that he’s lashed out in anger of something. It should be easy.”

Kadar dropped his pencil and rubbed his eyes. His paper was a disaster of scrawls and misplaced numbers. The sort of thing that he’d never be able to turn into the teacher. The side of his hand was gray from the pencil lead rubbing off the sheet and from the way he was rubbing the side of his palm he must have been on the verge of a serious cramp. “Is it easy to ignore Leonardo?”

“It was,” Malik said. “It is. I’m angry at him too. But I know he gets it. I know he knows why I’m angry and he admitted his fault. I know that he said he was sorry and understands that just because he said it I’m not obligated to feel better or to stop being angry—but then there’s Altair and he—”

“Is pathetic?” Kadar prompted.

“Yes,” Malik said. “But I know what it feels like. I’ve never hit someone but have I tried to deal with more than I thought I could handle, have I messed up so bad my family won’t talk to me? Have I ever felt powerless and alone, abandoned by people I thought loved me? Yes. I keep thinking, I wish someone would have helped me.”

Kadar shrugged. “You fucked up, Malik. That’s why you were alone. It’s not a great place to be but nobody owed you anything. If you wanted someone to help you, we were here. You didn’t want help, you wanted—status quo. I mean, I’m not the best judge because I didn’t even know you hated yourself as much as you did but, I think you’re better now than you were then?”

Yes. Malik nodded. “It’s hard to watch,” he said. “That’s it. It’s just hard to watch.”

Kadar made a rude noise at that. “Really? When is Leonardo going to show up? Let’s ask him what a downward spiral in motion looks like. Or Mom? Be _Mom_ , Malik. Be the person that believes in him even when he doesn’t want it, the one that can’t be forced to give up. But don’t tell him the answers.”

Yeah, except Malik was not his Mother. He was nowhere even close to it. He nodded and Kadar nodded back and the two of them sighed at their respective obligations.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> I know what you’re doing.
> 
> Please don’t.
> 
> Well, I didn’t think I could get rid of you either
> 
> but look at you now
> 
> leave me alone, I’m drinking

Altair was not drunk but drinking. The bottles were beer and the buzz was a depressing little cloud hanging over his shoulder as he sat in the tub with his knees pulled up and spread open. The cold porcelain had grown slowly body-hot while he sat there. The hard edge of the tub dug into the top of the gash and that hurt but in a way that become less-and-less important the longer he sat there working his way through the beer. 

Mrs. Finch had spent the majority of his childhood trying to figure out why-the-hell he liked bathtubs the way he did. She had sat in the bathroom with him when he was too young to be trusted not to drown and she had sat outside the door when he was too old to be naked around Nannies. She called through the door, things like _do you think you’re part sea monster?_ but also, _maybe your mother was a mermaid!_.

Altair was nine-years-old, dripping water with a towel held around his body saying, _but those are salt water fish. I don’t like the ocean_. He left puddles on the floor and lakes in the bathroom every time he took a bathtub. Mrs. Finch despaired over him and wondered and poked and asked all-the-time about why he liked bathtubs. 

Then there was his Grandmother, with her arms around him and the book they’d just read laying against her leg. Her lips were soft in his hair and her voice was gentle against his forehead. She said, “you are a little fish, Altair. Just a very little one. I saw you when your father brought you. You were this big,” and her fingers were no more than an inch apart, “you were blue! And yellow. He was very proud to have such a colorful fish as a son but I couldn’t have a fish for a grandson. You know? Too many people would ask questions. So I asked a witch doctor to please make you into a boy.”

Altair-was-a-kid with no brains and he played with the long silver chains of Grandma’s necklaces and said, _why, Grandma?_ or _but there are no witch doctors_.

Grandma said, “there’s as much to the world as you want to see. There’s as much to you as you want to see. You were a fish, I am very sure of it. I asked the witch doctor—he’s an employee of mine—to make you a boy and the witch doctor told me that fish do not like to become boys. They are too fond of the water. I never let a man tell me what to do. I told him to go ahead and make you a boy and I would make sure you had water to splash in. That. That is why you swim in our bathtub. Your heart remembers when it was just a very little fish.” 

Altair turned his head up to look at her and said, _but that isn’t real, is it? I wasn’t ever a fish._

Grandma smiled at him and kissed his forehead. Her cheek was soft against his skin. Her love was the touch of her old fingers around his still worrying her necklace into knots. “No dear, you were never a fish. But it does sound very nice.”

Here-and-now, Altair wasn’t a fish but a drunk. 

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> Leonardo
> 
> If you do not want to talk to me, we can continue to send intermittent texts.
> 
> Don’t tempt me

Mother had _insisted_ on picking Leonardo up at the airport. The drive had required a day off and Kadar had tried his very hardest (and failed) to convince her that he needed to go with them. He was a senior and Mother was unforgiving about the notion that her children would graduate so he was sent to school with a scowl and Malik was invited along for the ride. 

“It is not—a problem for you to be in cars?” Mother asked. It was the sort of thing that nobody had asked him in all the months since the accident but the idea of it, the notion that they felt it should bother him was evident in their long stares. Leonardo had been the worst about it, constantly looking-sideways at him in the front seat like waiting for a bomb to finish ticking down. 

“I don’t remember the accident,” Malik said. “I—it’s, there’s this moment when I’m waking up where I’m not fully awake or fully asleep that I get stuck in sometimes and that’s a problem. I can’t remember where I am or what happened until I wake up the rest of the way. So I feel scared? But it’s not a full feeling. This isn’t anything.” He motioned at the whole front of the car.

“Hm,” Mother said. They made small talk about college plans and Mother’s job while the drove. They sat outside the terminal reading the books they’d brought with them until Leonardo dropped into the seat between them. He had a bag against his chest and a huff of exhaustion as he hit the seat. Mother opened her mouth to voice her displeasure at the interruption and it swiftly changed to joy, “Leonard--- _oh_ ,” that just as swiftly turned to worry. “Oh,” she repeated. 

Leonardo’s face was still bruised. The marks on his cheeks were brown-and-green, the ink blackness on his eyelids was cut only by odd wrinkles of flesh-color. The white of his eye had a weak look to it, as if it were not fully healed. “Please don’t waste your tears,” Leonardo said to her. It wasn’t empty words either. He shifted up so his body was blocking Malik from his mother. Leonardo touched her arm and said (very quietly), “don’t cry.”

Mother touched his face. Her thumb ran across the blackened skin and then dropped away. “You should not let your pride talk for you.” But the words did not even summon enough heat to seem like a reproach. Mother stood up and cleared her throat before motioning them onward. She walked away rather than wait. 

Malik stood up and Leonardo stood up next to him, his whole body caught in an awkward arch to keep from being too close. Malik stood in front of him with his head tipped back so he could see the residual damage as clearly as possible. In the blinding lights of the airport, the damage looked clinical. There was a scar just below his lower lip that hadn’t been there when he left. “I’m sorry,” Malik said.

“You didn’t do this,” Leonardo said.

“I helped create the monster.”

Leonardo rolled his eyes and sighed. “You didn’t do this. I will not accept an apology that’s not ne—”

Oh-but Malik had been _angry_ every _minute_ of every day since he knew that Altair had gone to Italy. He’d been sick with _fury_ every second after he got the bloody picture. It sustained him all this time, it kept him awake at night and kept him awake in the day. It twisted around in his head until there was no finding a sense of peace in it all. He was angry that Leonardo was hurt and angry that Leonardo had _hurt_ Altair. But he was angry (most of all) that he had lost his _friends_. 

He didn’t realize it (how much he missed this idiot) until he hugged him. His arm didn’t seem like enough force to drag Leonardo up against his body. But Leonardo wrapped both his arms around Malik, dropped his bag and tucked his face in against Malik’s shoulder. He hugged him like he had been _terrified_ he’d never have the chance. 

“I’m so pissed at you,” Malik said into the ruffled-up neck of his shirt. “I’m so angry.”

Leonardo nodded and tightened his arms around him. “I’m sorry.” But he didn’t let go. He didn’t shrink back. He didn’t disappear out of shame.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> It’s weird that I miss you most when I wake up. Like that moment when I first wake up, before I remember you haven’t sent me a message, I still grab my phone and check.

“Every time I come home you look worse than when I left,” Maria said. She stopped at the end of his legs stretched out from the couch and sighed at him. “I suppose this is better than finding you sleeping in the tub. Have you been drinking?”

“No,” Altair said. He looked up at her, at the edges of the movie make-up that weren’t completely gone from her face and the waning exhaustion of these recent days of shooting. “I made dinner. It’s in the oven.”

Maria stood there a minute with her mouth open and then closed it again and said, “I didn’t know you could cook. Thank you.”

“No problem,” Altair said. 

\--

Sass-Badger: I can’t imagine why it matters so much to all of you but yes @horse has drawn my picture.

Malik’s bed wasn’t big enough for two people. Leonardo was laying with his limbs intertwined with Malik’s. The easy, familiar comfort of his closeness was worth more than the lagging anger that made Malik’s body stiffen when he got too close. “So you got to have sex with Ezio, was it what you thought it would be?”

“It was very nice,” Leonardo said. “He is energetic and eager to please. I like how unprepared he was to like the things I did to him.”

“Ezio Auditore is eager to please?” Malik said. “I wouldn’t have figured him as that type. Like the kind that thinks he’s a personal gift hand-picked by a deity of your choice to be the best sex you’ve ever had—maybe. But not eager to please.” He was holding Leonardo’s phone and flipping through the pictures he’d taken of his time in Italy. The landmarks and the photos of architecture didn’t appeal to him at all. The little glimpses of the daily lives of the Auditores were more interesting. 

“Speaking of,” Leonardo said. He lifted his head up from where it was resting against Malik’s chest and leaned up onto his arm so his upper body was lifted away from the bed. “Does Altair really have a ten inch cock? If he does, how did you manage to fit all of that into you when you were a virgin?”

Malik snorted. “It’s actually not ten inches, like nine and three quarters maybe. I was drunk,” Malik said. He didn’t remember if he was displeased about having the mammoth dick shoved up his ass or not. He didn’t have clear memories of it at all. “Who told you how big his dick was?”

“Ezio,” Leonardo said. “I was trying to keep him from coming too soon. It was very effective for both of us.”

“You’re actually an awful person,” Malik said softly. “I don’t want to talk about him with you.” He handed the phone back to Leonardo. “I don’t trust you to know things.”

“I know,” Leonardo said. “How is he? I asked the cousins but they told me he was ‘fine’ and wouldn’t say anything else. Mama Maria only said that he would not return and I did not need to worry about it. You don’t have to give me details but—”

“But what? You want to know how effective you were?” Malik frowned at Leonardo’s softly-sad expression. “He’s not good. That’s all you get to know. Tell me about Italy. What does it smell like and sound like?”

Leonardo laid back down with his head pillows on Malik’s chest and drew in a breath. When he started to talk, Malik closed his eyes and built images out of his words.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_badger@gmail.com]
> 
> What gives you the power to decide when I’ve fucked up? I didn’t do this alone. You’re not innocent but you’re perfectly fine telling me that I can’t have the privilege of your company without answering your question. Except you created an invisible standard for the answer that you didn’t bother to share with me. 
> 
> Which is fine because I’m sure that you’re over there in wherever the hell you live comforting yourself with how reliable and understanding and wonderful your foul-mouthed fuck buddy is. The fact is that he treated you exactly like trash, he threw you around like you were nothing but a bargaining chip.
> 
> YOU create this. YOU toyed with us—with me, with him. You created the situation with your stupid fucking teasing. You told him and you let him do whatever he wanted and that’s what happened.
> 
> Why don’t you take a minute to fucking apologize?

The thing was, problems were always taken care of _for_ Altair. It was a tradition started by his Grandmother and carried on straight down the long-line of relatives that had assumed responsibility for him at one point or another. Even Federico (who despised him most openly out of everyone) had come to pick him up after school every day with a flat-frowning-stare at anyone that dared to come near Altair. 

All Altair ever needed to do was find his Grandmother and tell her the story. He had told her dozens-and-dozens over the years. He had filled her ears with the retellings of the children that had slighted him and the teachers that had disagreed with him and the strangers at balls that had hovered too long around him. She would listen and investigate and unholy fire would rain down upon those that had been deemed guilty of their crimes. 

He wondered what she would have done about this. (He didn’t have to wonder long. She would have uncovered Sass’ identity and ridiculed her until she shriveled and died if for nothing more than having the audacity to speak out against Altair. They never would have gotten to this point.) What she might have said about what happened in Italy. (Now that was a different problem.)

“What are you thinking about?” Maria asked. (So very quietly, in the dark.) She came over and sat next to him on the couch. Her legs were pulled up and she leaned against the couch back and not him.

“My Grandmother,” he said.

“Why?” Maria asked. “What would she say about this?”

Altair licked his lips and drew a heavy breath in through his nose. “Grandmother would have said, there are smarter ways to disarm an enemy. She would have said, if you have put a hand on your opponent then you have already lost the fight. She didn’t like the way Giovanni let the boys settle their problems. She thought that physical violence was a sign of a small mind.” He turned his head so he could look at Maria. “But when I was seven and a kid smacked me in the face with a ruler hard enough to cut my cheek, she said to me: do you want to hit him back or should I speak to his parents? I was scared of the kid with the ruler and I told her that. So she said, go to the school and hit the boy. I will talk to his parents. I think she sued them. I know he never came back to the school and the teachers were very attentive to me the rest of the time I was there.” 

“Was she always like that?” Maria asked. “I mean, I know she passed when you were young but was she like as you got older? At eleven did she still solve your problems for you?”

“Ah,” Altair said softly. He shifted his body on the couch and ran his fingers along the in-seam of his pants. He hadn’t been drinking (again) but he hadn’t slept for more than an hour in three days. Exhaustion made his head hurt and his tongue loose. Loneliness drove the demons from the pit of his gut where he kept them in boxes nobody ever had to peek into. “Grandmother was sick for a few years before she died. But when I was eleven—almost twelve, she was dealing with a lot. Desmond had just shown up and told her his story which I didn’t understand at the time but that started a fight with everyone. Lawyers were there as much as doctors. She was very ill in the last six months. She didn’t get out of bed much. So I came to her bed and I laid there listening to the machines whirr and I told her my story.” He stopped and thought of that awful room. He thought of her skin that had been soft so-long turned dry and papery when it touched him. 

“What was your story?” Maria asked.

Altair turned his head to look at her. “I used to want to kiss boys,” he said, “I used to be able to think about it. I didn’t always— There was a boy named Michael that went to school with me and we were friends. I invited him over to play a lot and he invited me over to play at his house. I don’t remember why I did it—I was eleven so maybe I was just curious—but I kissed him. We were out at a playground and he was smiling and I thought his smile was just so beautiful. So I leaned forward and kissed him. He had brown eyes, very deep brown eyes. He laughed when I kissed him and asked me why I did it. I told him because I thought he was so pretty and he laughed again and told me that I was stupid. But it was harmless.” 

Maria’s fingers were carding through his hair, pulling at the tiny hairs at the nape of his neck while he spoke. 

“I went to school the next day and we had gym. Even at eleven we had to change into gym clothes because it was—you just did. So I was there with all these boys and we had to wear shorts and T-shirts. One of the boys knocked me down while we were playing dodge ball or soccer. I forget, we kicked a ball. I thought, that happens. But then the next kid knocked me over and the next one. Finally the coach sent James Henrico to take me inside. I had a bloody nose or something. He took me by the arm and it was tight enough to hurt and dragged me inside toward the nurse’s office. I remember he shoved me through her door and he said, _here you sissy faggot._ ” Altair paused there to relish the cold fear that drove through his chest at the words. There was no accounting for how it lingered, how he remembered James’ sneer when he said it or the smell of blood in his nose. “I mean, compared to the things my cousins said about me later it was nothing. I probably wouldn’t even remember it except that I told my Grandmother he had said it to me—but not that I’d kissed the other boy. She said that she would take care of it. She said, ‘don’t let that little faggot worry you. People only call you names they are ashamed to call themselves.’ But she never did anything about it. James Henrico didn’t do anything to me after that but Michael never played with me again.”

Maria pulled his head toward her and pressed her lips to his temple. She said, “I’m sorry that happened. James Henrico was wrong to call you names. Michael was wrong to tell them. But there is nothing wrong with wanting to kiss boys, Altair.” Then there was a pause and she touched his arm. He didn’t move at all, just let her squeezed her hand around his forearm like reassurance. “Maybe you should do something about it? Nothing violent, just—something. You have the chance now to take care of your own mess and make a difference in your life for the better.”

Altair was too-tired to make any difference. He shrugged it off. “I’m tired.” But he didn’t want to sleep either. Maria nodded and pulled at his arm to make him stand and led him down the hall to her bed. It was big enough to fit them with no overlap but she turned him on his side and snuggled up against his back. 

“Sleep,” she said.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_badger@gmail.com]
> 
> What happened at that villa was my cousin (the very same one that then fucked your friend Leonardo) invited me there to avenge my injured pride. That’s how it works for them. I could not list for you the number of times Federico or Ezio has used their fists to settle their hurt feelings. For that matter, you couldn’t find a single word on the internet about the vaguest sense of speculation regarding them ever having done such a thing. Ezio’s been arrested for beating up men who were hurting women but even that’s usually not public knowledge. 
> 
> I went there to see him. I told myself that I just wanted to know what this man looked like and who he was because he was obviously good enough for you. 
> 
> I thought we’d fight. I didn’t think I’d hit him. I mean, it was always the possibility but I didn’t think it was the ONLY possibility. I spent the first day just thinking about how much I hated him. Then I caught him making out with Ezio and I thought—how the fuck is this man the one that’s good enough to sleep next to Sass at night? How is this the guy who’s good enough to make a difference in her life? Why did he have that privilege when he’s tonguing Ezio in an alcove, forgetting that you even exist? 
> 
> I was angry. I didn’t go looking for him. I found him. It was over the moment I found him by that balcony. Everyone knew we were going to fight—do you understand? Can you put yourself in that place, where everyone from your Aunt to the guy you’ve been avoiding all KNOW THAT you are going to have this fight. It gets to the point where it doesn’t seem like there’s a reason to protest, like there’s no point in defending yourself from the inevitable. There’s no point in abstaining from something when everyone wants it.
> 
> Mama Maria is pissed at me now because I beat his face in, but the day before I did it, she was sighing at the table waiting for me to just do it already.
> 
> He said I made you low. He said I wasn’t worthy of you. That didn’t matter as much as the idea that he knew—you know—I know that there’s no reason to think I’ll ever get to see you. That bastard has had every advantage. He has had every opportunity. He apparently saved your damn life and what have I done? 
> 
> I’ve made you stupid like me. I’ve hurt you more than even I can imagine. 
> 
> I didn’t mean to hit him like I did. I’m sorry if what I did hurt you. I didn’t mean to do that either.

Malik knocked on his Mother’s doorframe after-dinner, before-prayers. She was sitting on her bed looking through the books she’d picked up at the library for what she wanted to read next. Leonardo and Kadar were in the living room arguing about high school chemistry. (And that whole conversation had started with Leonardo saying _but I’m not very good at chemistry_ like anyone believed him.) When she glanced up at him, her smile was tender.

“I thought you would enjoy the conversation,” she said.

Malik snorted. “Science wasn’t exactly my favorite subject.” But then he sighed, hovering in her doorway while he ran his finger over the dips and imperfections in the paint. “Do you want to go on a walk?”

Mother set the book she was holding back on her bedside table and nodded. “I would.”

They left with little fanfare (hardly either of the men arguing about chemical bonds in the dining room noticed them). Mother let him set the pace and said nothing while they walked. There was no way that she wasn’t aware why he’d asked but she kept her silence with patience and gentle understanding that she would be ready when he was sufficiently prepared to speak. It had been one of the most constant memories of his childhood. Mother’s quiet knowledge had always been a comfort and not a burden. Maybe when Malik was young(er) he had thought he could be like her but his silence was never patient. His knowledge was not gentle. 

“I—After what happened in Italy, I asked them what happened. Leonardo apologized to me and told me everything he said and did and everything that Altair said and did in front of him. Altair said, ‘we wanted the fight so we had the fight’.” Mother didn’t interrupt him but made a flat noise in her throat to indicate her opinion of Altair’s character. Malik didn’t address it. “I told him that I wouldn’t talk to him until he could figure out why people were angry with him. I haven’t talked to him since then.”

“Has he not answered you?”

Malik laughed and wished he hadn’t. “He’s sent me messages but he hasn’t answered me. I got one today and it’s—he told me why it happened like I asked. Except that he didn’t? That’s not important. It’s not important what he said. I feel like I’m watching him drown and I don’t know what to do.” He turned his head to look at Mother. She was looking forward-not-at-him, walking with the same calm acceptance as before. “How do you do it? How do you watch us make these stupid choices and not grab us by the ears and shake us?”

Mother scratched her elbow and hummed a little noise. “I trust you,” she said. “It is not _easy_ to watch it happen. When you left for school, I watched my youngest child struggle to figure out life without you. I watched him struggle with the burden you left him with. It was unfair that you let him know about your sexuality, filled his head with your fears and then left him alone with it. If Kadar had still be a true child, I would have told him that I knew and that everything would be alright. He wasn’t a child then. That struggle was painful for him. It was painful for me. But it was important. Life has many struggles and many of them are lonely ones. If I had told him that I knew about you and that I was only waiting for you to trust me to know, I imagine he would not have been in so much pain. It would have been easier for him to forgive you.”

“Why didn’t you?” Malik asked.

Then their shuffling footsteps stopped. Mother turned to look at him. “Why didn’t you? You knew that your brother was in pain and it didn’t move you to help him. You knew that he was torn between his loyalty to you and his own feelings and you took just enough advantage of it to be sure your secret was safe.” Then she started walking again. Her arm slid around his and her fingers laced through his. She was warm against his side. “Kadar was in pain. But think of the good that has come from this. Kadar knows you better now than he did before. Kadar seems you as a person now when you were just an idea before. He knows what he is willing to give and what he is unwilling to take. He understands there is more to his life than his blind loyalty to his older brother. When he made the choice to stay with you in the hospital, I allowed it because I knew that though you would try—and you must have tried—you could not break him.”

Malik nodded. “But how do _you_ do it? How do you watch someone drowning? I feel like, every minute of the day that I’m torturing him and for nothing.”

“It is only for nothing and torture if nothing is learned. Your mistake is that you cannot understand a world where it is all or nothing. Even when I was the most exasperated about your pain, I did not let you forget that you were loved. Whether it was what you needed to hear or not, I tried to tell you often.” They walked in silence.

Malik looked at the ground and Mother nodded to the neighbors they passed. They went around the block and back toward their own house. They were nearly there before Mother said (oh-so-quietly), “do you love him, Malik? Not for how he looks but for the person that he is?”

That was the worst of it. Malik looked at her, at the apprehension on her face laced through with her disapproval of Altair (as a person) and he licked his lips (to buy a few precious seconds) before he said, “yes.”

“Then you should tell him.” Oh but what a defeat those words seemed to be to her. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I have spent more time than I wished trying to craft a reply to your steady stream of denial, misdirected anger and insincere apologies. I have a dozen drafts of a reply to this last message sitting on my hard drive, each of them labeled for how immature or stupid I thought you were when I started writing them. I have poured fire into the words in those documents to roast you alive for your failings. Each of them failed to satisfied me. Every answer that I have imagined to your whimpering denial of guilt has failed to say what it is that I truly want to say to you. 
> 
> I love you, Altair. I do not love you for your face or your body. I do not love you for your wealth. I do not love you for the public face you carry with you when your leave your home. I do not love your immature humor. I do not love your violent denial. And yet I do. The thing is, the very worst thing is, that I do love you and when I say this I do not mean I love only the version of you that slept with a stuffed badger to make sure it did not smell like packaging when I got it. I do not only love the version of you that teases me about the words I don’t know. I do not only love you when you are kind, when you are sincere or when you are scared out of your mind to tell me the things that you have kept hidden for all of your life. 
> 
> I love your petty vengeance. I love your intolerable mouth.
> 
> Both Leonardo and you have taken it upon yourselves to speak for me. Both of you have claimed that the other is not worthy of me. Leonardo said that you hurt me, he said that you were unworthy of me. He told me that he said these things and I know he chose them because it is what you are most afraid to hear. At times, both of those things were true. You are the catalyst of some of the most painful struggles of my life but you are not the cause. There was a long time when I would have named you infinitely unworthy to know me.
> 
> However, the thing that the two of you seem to have forgotten is that, regardless of your own high opinions of yourself, I am a whole person without you. I have not been made low by your friendship and love; I have not been enlightened by his. To say that you have made me one way or another would be to say that I have given away my ability to choose for myself. People are changed by friendships but only insomuch as they are willing to be. If I have changed in the time that I have known you, I am not lower for that change. I am not less because I love you. If anyone believes it is because their jealousy does not allow them to perceive me in any other way.
> 
> Love is not an excuse for blindness. We are both the sum of our faults. We are both the end result of our lives. But there has to be a time when someone is brave enough to tell you that, you no longer have the ability or right to blame your own faults and mistakes on anyone but yourself. I do not mean only in this instance, Altair. I do not mean to say that I am not without sympathy for the way you were raised and the pressure of expectation that you follow suit to other’s wishes. I mean to say that you have tried to pour yourself into an ill-fitting mold, to simultaneously be everything that is expected of you.
> 
> I cannot be with you now. It is because I believe that you are smart enough and mature enough to know that what you did was wrong and why. I do not know if it is fear that keeps you from confronting these inner demons but I do know that as long as it is no surprise to me—or anyone—that you would strike out so violently and so remorselessly for verbal slurs, I cannot be with you. 
> 
> I am not leaving you. I am not going away. This is not a bold statement like the one that Mama Maria made to you and did not keep. My love is not boundless. My tolerance is not extreme. You _can_ make me go away, Altair but I sincerely wish that you do not. 
> 
> If you want to, or need to, talk to me. I will listen but I will only answer with sincerity what is said with sincerity.

Altair told himself that he was laughing. It was a sound bubbling up from his gut, a hiccupping sensation that was moving his shoulders. He was laughing because it was fucking-ridiculous and his throat was hurting because it was that-fucking-stupid. His phone was sitting on Maria’s breakfast bar and his head was tipped back because it was _so fucking stupid_ that he was laughing like he just couldn’t stop. 

Because Sass _loved_ him. 

“Fuck,” he said with his hands over his face and a shiver in his body. It started like a quaking in his chest, moving out to shiver in his arms until it was shaking down to his hands and quivering in his knees. His heart was beating like he’d run-for-days and his whole body was going numb-but-hot and then cold. As he pressed his teeth together and dragged his fingers down his face. He said, “fuck,” against the feeling because it was spiraling beyond control. His fist dropped to the countertop and that little pang of pain was _just enough_ to create something _real_ in the fog that was condensing around his body. It was a pinch of something and he did it again with the blunt edge of his knuckles, like knocking on a door. And then again as the shaking turned to anger. 

He did it again, one more time, just hard enough to make a noise and thought-about-it. The things that were swirling in his head like:

Maria kissing his neck in the middle of the night saying, _sleep now_. That was a fucking riot because he was thinking about how his Grandmother had slurred the word _faggot_ about a boy that hurt him and maybe all his life he’d thought she meant that _faggots_ were the things that James Henrico had made them sound like they were. Except-that-Ezio was fucking guys now and none-the-worse-for-the-wear. 

That didn’t matter because Altair was beating (the wall) Leonardo’s face in because he was jealous-and-scared. 

Altair’s whole-fucking-family was made up of half-ideas and whole-contradictions. Mama Maria was in the kitchen of her house with her arm around his shoulders when he was a _fat fucking orphan_ saying things like _I’ll never give up on you_ but fast-forward a year and she was shaking her head over him saying, _if you’re not going to try I suppose there’s no reason for me to try_ and Altair had remembered the brilliant, bitter, bite of victory and _satisfaction_ that he’d broken her. 

Maybe he screamed at the wall that broke under his knuckles, maybe he screamed at the blood that splashed across the cracked drywall crumbling under the pressure of endless assault. Maybe he screamed at—

(Late at night, when he was awake and the house was asleep, Altair thought about how glad he was that nobody cared and he never had to try. Because Grandmother had told him that anything you believe hard enough _is true_.)

Altair picked up the stool and smashed it across the breakfast nook. It broke in splinters and long sticks but the force that he used to smash it dragged him down. He landed on the ground in the rubble of broken things. His face was hot and his shoulders were shaking. Altair pressed his filthy hands against his face, pressed the heels in tight against his eyes. The sound that emitted from his chest wasn’t a laugh. It was a whistle that changed into a wail that broke into a series of half-denied coughs-like-sobs.


	50. Chapter 50

> **Maria**
> 
> Where the hell are you
> 
> Why is there a hole in the wall
> 
> Why is there BLOOD
> 
> Why is the stool broken
> 
> Don’t ignore me
> 
> You have five minutes to answer me or I’m calling your family
> 
> I won’t call the low level members. I will go straight to the top
> 
> Relax. I was getting x-rays.
> 
> Why were you getting X-rays?
> 
> I broke my knuckle.
> 
> I’m sorry about your wall. I’ll pay for it to be fixed
> 
> What ER are you in? Don’t argue, just tell me so I can come there.
> 
> Please don’t. I’ll be home as soon as I’m finished

Altair had pain medicine but other than the local anesthesia that they’d used to numb the torn skin down the back of his hand, he hadn’t taken any of it. It was dangling from his left hand as he climbed the stairs (he had declined to use the elevator) to Maria’s temporary apartment. He used the key he’d been given to open the door and expected that Maria had gone to bed and was therefore unprepared to find her sitting in the chair facing the door. She was dressed in at-home clothes (sweat pants and T-shirts, nothing that she’d ever allow herself to be seen in) with both of her legs curled up by her body and her phone gripped in her hand. 

“Hey,” he said. “You didn’t have to…” He motioned at her sitting in the chair and the door behind him. It shut with a quiet noise and he reached back to turn the locks. 

Maria didn’t get up but motion him forward with her hands stretched out toward him. He stepped forward until she caught his injured hand and pulled it up to look at it. There were new stitches down the back of his hand and bruising in a ring around it. He’d broken one of his knuckles and had his smallest two fingers taped together to heal the damage. Her thumbs were gentle across the still-swollen-and-sore parts before she let out a sigh. “Would you like to talk about it?”

“Not yet,” Altair said.

While he was expecting a fight, Maria simply nodded her head. “What would you like to eat? Don’t tell me that you aren’t hungry. You have to eat something so tell what you want and we’ll make it or go get it.”

“I don’t care,” Altair said. “Something hot.” 

Maria stood up and hovered in the space in front of him. Her intentions were as confused as her indecisive arms half-lifted to go around him. There was a slant of indecision on her face before she finally resigned herself to saying, “I know that I’m not someone that you trust but I’m here.”

“Thanks,” Altair said again. 

They went to the kitchen. Maria sorted through her pantry and fridge while Altair picked up the broken pieces of the stool. He stacked the long pieces by the fridge and bagged the smaller stuff. The broom was hard to manage when two of his fingers didn’t bend completely but he turned down Maria’s help when she offered it. “Did you call your cousin?” Maria asked.

Altair pulled out the second stool and sat on it while Maria assembled the ingredients for whatever she was making. His phone was a quiet lump on the counter (and there was a chip missing out of the side of it) as he shook his head. “No. I’ll call him later. How was shooting today?”

Maria huffed at the question. “There is no love story in my movie but you would not know that from the way the baboon that acts opposite me behaves. I cannot tell if he is posturing for the sake of declaring himself a true alpha male or if he genuinely believes he has a chance with me.” She washed her hands at the sink and then picked a pan to set on the stove. “As if anyone would have a chance when I am dating you.”

That was almost funny. Altair smiled at it (like a reflex, because he was expected to). “I’ve been told that I’m no prize.”

“You are rich and handsome and despite your current self-doubts and troubles, infinitely a better man than the one that leers at me on set.” Then she looked up from her preparations to see him and stopped what she was doing to say. “Altair. It will be fine. I do not know what—did this,” she motioned at the wall, “but whatever it is, it will get better.”

Altair looked sideways, at the hole that he’d knocked into the wall. At the cracked and broken drywall, the blood spots that sprayed out away from the point of impact and the exposed wood he’d just barely hit at some point without realizing it. The whole incident seemed like a foggy-dream, the sort of thing that was real-and-not-real all at once. He was simply too tired (too numb) to have an opinion about his chances of survival. “Sass loves me,” Altair said half to the hole in the wall and half to Maria. He wasn’t brave enough to look at Maria. He wasn’t even brave enough to try to wrap his head around those words.

Sass _loved_ him. (But it was so-so-much more than that.) 

“Did she leave you?” Maria asked. The words so tentative and quiet that they were nearly like fear. 

It wasn’t bravery but polite manners that made Altair turn his head back to face Maria. She was looking out of the corner of her eye, glancing to see if he was going to answer while she worked on stirring whatever she was making in the bowl. “No,” Altair said. “I mean—no. She said she couldn’t be with me right now because of— That.” 

Maria nodded. “Well there’s something to be said for that kind of intelligence.”

“Yeah,” Altair said. “I guess there is.” Then he sighed again. “What are you going to do about the baboon?”

“I considered inviting him out with us. I had intended to talk to you about it but given,” she paused a moment and then said, “ _this_ , I thought the additional stress of having to deal that mess would be too much.”

“I’ll do it,” Altair said. “Set a date. Tell me what you want to do.”

Maria looked skeptical about his ability to follow through but she nodded. “Thank you. Food, medicine and bed for you. Everything that looks bleak today will look manageable tomorrow.”

Altair nodded. “Sounds fine.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m not sure how well-founded your belief in me is. I broke my hand punching a wall. 
> 
> I do not want you to go away. I do not want to be the person that I was in Italy. The truth, as much as I know it to be the truth, is that I did want to see Leonardo for the reasons I said. I cannot even be sure it was him that I was angry at. I was angry at you or at the idea of you having told my secrets to this man. I did go there to size up the competition but also to see what he would say when you weren’t there. When he was telling me how I had hurt you and how I had made you low, I was scared that it was true but I was furious that you had said those things to him. Every word he said made it seem as if I were nothing but a joke to him and by some extension to you. 
> 
> It shouldn’t surprise you to know that my family suffers from a lack of sincerity. My cousins are terrible for mocking and poking and making fun of one another. They understand it as part of some complicated sibling relationship that does not extend to me. 
> 
> They think you are a joke or that you are playing a joke on me.
> 
> The last thing he said to me before I started hitting him in earnest was _why are you so afraid of dick, Altair_. I don’t remember what I felt exactly but I know that it has been knocking around in my head since then. How did he know THAT. Out of the many things he might have said to me, how did he know to ask me that? Sometimes it makes me furious because there are only two people in the world that I have ever attempted to talk to about this and Desmond has no access to Leonardo. Sometimes it scares me that I’m so transparent even strangers would know. Sometimes I feel nothing at all about it.
> 
> I can replay it in my head. I can see the moment when that fear became more important than anything else.
> 
> When I say that Leonardo wanted a fight, I do not mean it childishly (though I have, admittedly, said very childishly many times). I do not doubt, even from the very short time I knew him, that your friend is of the highest intelligence and extraordinarily good at picking out the sore spots. I watched him spending time with my cousins and he is, among other talents, a master at understanding and manipulating a person’s motivations and feelings. 
> 
> It is a poor excuse for my behavior. I know what I did was wrong. I know that my denial and childish outbursts in the aftermath were also wrong.
> 
> I know that I should apologize and I know that I should genuinely mean the words when I say them. But I’m still more scared and angrier than I am sorry.

It had been Kadar’s suggestion that they go out to eat for Leonardo’s last day (and also because there was a buffet nearby, it was Ramadan and he was starving). He’d made the suggestion in the morning when Malik had still been friendly (but certainly not loving) toward Leonardo’s presence in their house. Something had happened in between the time he left for school and returned. There hadn’t been time to ask his brother about it as the afternoon dragged on in perpetual hunger. Mother had come home and there had been prayers and talk. 

Malik was sitting across the table from Kadar with every single part of his body stiff with distaste as he went through the utmost trouble to keep from allowing any part of his body to touch Leonardo’s. 

Malik didn’t say a word.

Leonardo chatted with Mother about Ramadan and its cultural and spiritual significance. Every word that Leonardo said was genial and his face never once slipped from perfect interest but with every little sound of his voice, Malik’s scowl went deeper through his face until it was a wonder that it wasn’t seared into his bones. 

Mother was smiling at Leonardo’s attempts while they ate but her own body language was aware (very, highly aware) of the growing cold conflict that existed on the opposite side of the table. She did not turn her head but look out of the corner of her eyes at him as if asking if he knew the cause of the furious silence. Kadar shrugged and Mother made the slightest motion with her hand to encourage him to address it.

“So,” Kadar said, “how’s the downward spiral going?”

Leonardo’s eyes went suspiciously wide at the words. The muscle in Malik’s jaw jumped as he went from glaring at his plate (painfully full of food that should have been eaten) to glaring at Kadar. There was some effort on his part to unhinge his jaw to answer the question but he didn’t manage it. 

“That was not what I meant,” Mother whispered to him.

Leonardo cleared his throat.

“Don’t,” Malik said. Then he got up, his thigh hit the table and he walked away from the table, stopping three-four-footsteps away before letting out a frustrated sound and coming back. He said, “Stay. Eat. I’m fine.” (Those words were specifically to Kadar who had in a split second tried to figure out if he was going to follow his brother or finish stuffing his face.) Then he walked away again.

Mother wiped her mouth and took a drink of water. “Text your brother and tell him that if he chooses to walk home he should let me know so I don’t worry.” 

“Of course he’s going to walk home,” Kadar said. He motioned toward the front of the restaurant. “You saw him.” But he pulled his phone out of his pocket even as he reached across the table to pull Malik’s plate closer to him. The food had been left untouched by the quiet broiling rage. “What did you do?” Kadar asked Leonardo.

“He has known what I did,” Leonardo said. “I think he is just now able to understand it and the consequences of it.” 

Kadar finished chewing the mushy macaroni and washed it down with a big gulp of cold water. He licked the taste of cheese out from between his teeth and cheek while he considered that cryptic statement. “Well, you deserve what you get then.” It wasn’t that he didn’t like Leonardo (because he did, a lot). “I don’t know if he told you or you figured it out on your own but at some point, it should have occurred to you that using someone’s fear of their sexuality against them was possibly the worst thing that you could do. It’s almost like, since you saw what it did to my brother that you would have the common decency to understand how sensitive and painful a topic it can be. But hey, you got your face beat in and now a guy who actually never did anything to you is probably having one hell of an emotional crisis so, good job there.”

Mother looked at him for a beat. Her expression a confused set of neutral, impressed and slightly confused before she turned abruptly back to face Leonardo. “There are several traditional ways to end fast during Ramadan.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I did not tell Leonardo anything, Altair. I was not even the person that told him about this. I cannot tell if it was because I am as unsurprised by his actions as I am at yours or because I didn’t want to share you. It doesn’t matter now, the two of you have made it your mission to do your worst and our only option is go on from here.
> 
> While I feel that there is at least one apology that should be made for your actions, I would very much prefer that it be genuine. I appreciate your honest efforts to discuss what happened but it is not the same. Having said that, I would like to hear more if there is more to say.
> 
> Stop hurting yourself. At the rate you’re going you’ll have more scars than tattoos.

Altair didn’t shave his face because Maria said that the addition of the fine growth of stubble all along his jaw highlighted both the naturally pleasing structure of his face and the scar that ran across his lips. He didn’t wear a tie because she decided that he was simply too fucking rich and happy (with her, his girlfriend) to care about looking formal. She wore red (because it was _dramatic_ , deep and _vibrant_ contrasting with her pale skin and her dark hair. Her make-up was perfect to highlight the natural beauty in her face but her lips were the color of blood. (A pleasant shock that drew in the attention of everyone that looked at her and didn’t allow them to look away.) In the back of the car on the way to meet the baboon, he said, “so you want me to touch you a lot and act possessive?”

“Yes,” Maria said. “Touch me in excess. As if you could not stand another minute of your life without it. Slip your fingers through the gaps in the buttons of my dress. Kiss me whenever you want.”

“Won’t that make you uncomfortable?” Altair asked. 

Her laugh was a gentle push of air through her nose. “No. What makes me uncomfortable is repeated, aggressive, unwanted sexual advances from a man who looks at me as if I were an item that he could possess and ruin before dropping into a bin. Just the slimy crawl of his stare over my body brings such a great feeling of disgust that it is sometimes all I can do to keep from vomiting on him. I feel unsafe and uncomfortable in his presence. You—you are not a threat to me.” 

“Tell that to my uncomfortable erection after I spend the whole night feeling you up,” Altair mumbled.

She leaned across to kiss him on the cheek. “We can watch porn together when we get home.”

“What’s baboon’s name?” 

“Henry,” Maria said. 

They had agreed to meet for drinks at Henry’s hotel. Altair slid his arm around Maria’s waist and she tucked her hand into his pocket (an act that he wasn’t sure that any other woman had ever done) as they were guided to the bar. It was well-lit but subdued, filled with people who were used to the quiet sophistication of similar company. Henry was sitting in a round booth with his wife. The two of them were vapid with superiority. Her face was a mask of contempt for anyone that dared point out how her lecherous husband was not even pretending to maintain interest in her. 

“Maria,” Henry said with great warmth. He got to his feet and spread his arms as if he meant to hug her. “It is so nice to meet you.” It was hard to ignore Altair (since Maria was plastered to his side) but Henry attempted the feat. Altair intercepted his hug by reaching up and grabbing his hand. 

“Altair,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Yes,” Henry said. He pulled his hand free from Altair’s grip and motioned back to the woman that didn’t even stand up to be introduced. She didn’t care at all to look at Maria but she glanced at Altair with a half-interested eyebrow. “This is my wife, Matilda.”

Altair smiled at her. “I didn’t realize you were married. That’s charming.” It wasn’t charming at all. Maria was smiling into his shirt front with her hand pinching at the skin of his thigh either as a reward or a warning. Either way he kept his back straight and his head high and looked down at Henry (a significant gap shorter than him) with the same face he used to glare at photographers. “Should we sit?”

“Yes,” Henry said. 

They suffered through small talk while Altair stroked Maria’s hand on the table. Henry was telling stories about _funny times on set_ while his wife’s frown grew more pointed and hateful. Altair stopped watching the crumbling wall of her resolve long before Henry was finished telling all about how he had caught Maria when she fell. 

Maria took a prim drink of her wine but the agitation that made her lips tight seemed as if it would have been just as likely to upend the whole glass and then ask for a bottle. Altair said, “hey,” in the middle of the climax of Henry’s stupid story and Maria turned to look at him with a smile. “You have something here,” he touched his thumb against the center of her bottom lip and when she opened her mouth to ask what it was he dipped his head down to kiss her. He had meant to make it a chaste thing. A sweet lover’s kiss but Maria shifted her whole body and tipped her head to press back against it. Her tongue slid into his mouth in a lewd showing of force and he matched it. 

Henry cleared his throat from his side of the table. 

Altair glared at him and had to repress a smirk at the way Henry’s whole body shuddered with instinctual fear. Matilda was rolling her eyes but the fierce hatred she had for Maria had loosened just a little. He picked up his glass and held it up to Matilda who inclined her head and picked up her own. 

Henry, however, did not seem to understand. Rather than stay and listen to the drone of his voice, Altair interrupted him as soon as he began to talk again. “While I’m sure this story is fascinating to _someone_ , Maria has already suffered through having your fumbling hands inexpertly groping her when she fell and I believe Matilda is trying not to relive her dinner while listening. I hear a piano,” he looked at Maria, “would you like to dance?”

Maria smiled at him. “I asked you to be nice,” she said.

He tipped his head closer to her and stage-whispered, “I’m _not_ nice,” then he turned back to look at Henry. “Allow me to illuminate the situation you seem set on creating here. You are married and I have little patience. If I hear that you are acting inappropriate toward Maria Thorpe—or any other woman on the set of this movie, or any other movie—I will bury you in a shit storm the likes of which your career could never possibly recover from. Do not consider this a challenge, do not say a word.” Then he stood up and held his hand out for Maria. “I would like to dance with you.”

“I would like to dance with you,” she said, “but somewhere the company is better.” She took his hand and looked at Matilda, “would you like to go?”

Matilda shook her head no with a private smile on her face. “Thank you for the offer.” 

Then Maria pulled at Altair and he followed her to the door. 

\--

Son-of-no-one: RT: “SaltairSlash: we know @Sass_Badger’s opinion of Saltair fanfiction but what’s yours?” well on the one hand I’m flattered that perfect strangers seem to care enough about me… (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: to write stories about how I meet and woo @Sass_Badger. On the other hand, I found one where my cousins raping me was the justification for Sass agreeing to meet me (3h ago)

Sass_Badger: @son-of-no-one, I thought you got raped in a bar in that fic (2h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @Sass_Badger, in general I seem to get raped quite frequently in these stories. Raped, beaten, mugged, diagnosed with terminal cancer and once kidnapped and then raped. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: I can’t being to figure out what the preoccupation is. (1h ago)

Sass_Badger: I actually cannot explain this one to you. (57m ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “blackhairedBITCH: @Son-of-no-one, what does your girlfriend think about the stories?” her favorite ones are the one where I cry. But she also likes the one where Sass and her mud wrestle for my affection. (5m ago)

Altair did not wake up until Maria came back from shooting. She shouted his name all the way until she found him still sleeping in a nest of blankets on her bed. When she discovered him, she huffed (in jealousy) and threw herself on the bed next to him. Her body was all bones worming up behind his, her fingers were warm but invasive getting under the blankets and up through the shirt he was sleeping in to clutching at his ribs.

“What?” he asked.

“You’re still in bed,” she hissed at him. “For the second day in a row!”

“I’m tired.” He wasn’t tired, he simply hadn’t found the motivation to care enough to get out of bed. The fact that it took him far longer than he wanted to fall asleep and he seemed to have lost the ability to maintain a state of sleeping was nearly irrelevant to the conversation. 

“Let’s go get something to eat,” she said.

“No.” He didn’t want to dress up and be paraded around in front of cameras. He didn’t want to sit in fancy places eating dainty dishes with sparkling silver. There was nothing enjoyable about being scrutinized for weaknesses when he felt uncomfortably exposed anywhere outside of the layers of this blanket. 

Maria pressed her chin against his back in a way that was not at all friendly. Then she relented. “Have you called Desmond?”

“No,” he said.

“You should. He would want to know.” She didn’t move away, exactly when she said the words but shift to give him the room to roll onto his back. She ducked under his arm and laid across his ribs with her chin pillowed on her hands and her hair falling everywhere. 

Altair rested his right hand on her leg (because he had to keep it out of the way of touching anything) and shrugged. “I—” Simply didn’t want to deal with the complex interactions that were required when trying to figure out how the news of his latest stupidity would spread throughout the family and who would show up to say the most disapproving thing first. “—don’t want to call him. I have no reason to think that he wants me to either.”

Maria sighed. “Can I ask you a question then?” There was a pause for him to nod and then she shifted so she was sitting up farther. The expression on her face was nearly as serious as the pronounced silence that preceded her question. He could feel his body tightening down in preparation to deal with whatever she had to say but even if he’d had the time to imagine what it was, he probably wouldn’t have expected, “have you thought about when I asked if I could fuck you? I only ask now because I know that a lot of men are obsessed with penetrative sex and while you seem completely happy with our arrangement where I get the benefit of your years of experience performing cunnilingus, I need you to be more obsessed with penetration. Specifically the kind where I get to stick things in your butt.”

“What?” Altair asked.

“I said—”

Altair sat up and the action knocked Maria over backward on to the bed. She was smiling with pink dots on her face while he motioned out toward the broken wall outside of her tiny kitchen. “I am having a breakdown and you’re asking if you can fuck me in the ass!”

Maria laughed. “I think you’d like it.”

“I wouldn’t like it!” Altair snapped. “Didn’t you hear anything I told you? _That_ is the opposite of what I’d like.” His words were loud but there was no anger in them. (Raw, unadulterated disbelief but not anger.)

“I heard you say that you want to kiss guys and you think your Grandmother said that faggots are bad. I didn’t hear you say that you wouldn’t like having something in your butt.” She sat up and crossed her legs in front of her. Her smile was so pretty and pleased but it was slipping off her face. “Are you afraid to admit you are attracted to men because of James Henrico or because you think your Grandmother wouldn’t love you if you did?”

That was a laugh. Every part of Altair knew (beyond a shadow of a doubt) that there was nothing on this earth he could ever have done (or dreamt of doing) that would make his Grandmother’s love for him weaken. It was absolute and steadfast and it had never been anything but. So there was no explaining the fear that made his pulse skip and shame creep up over his cheeks. “What if she wouldn’t?”

“Was your Grandmother against homosexuality?” Maria asked. “I know Mama Maria but I do not know much about your Grandmother.”

“I don’t know,” Altair said. “It wasn’t a subject that ever came up. I know she didn’t have much faith in love and she thought marriage was as good as a prison. I don’t know.” That was the thing that lingered, the unknown thing. (Like an echo of the way she spit that word _faggot_ with such hate. Such utter, distasteful _hate_.) 

“Is there anyone that would?” 

Altair shrugged. “Mama Maria? William.” There was nothing funny about that notion. “Mama Maria would know, she used to go see my Grandma every summer. I think they were pretty close before Petruccio got sick.”

“You should call Mama Maria,” Maria said. “You owe her an apology anyway. I don’t care if you think you had every right in the world to punch Leonardo until his face caved in, that’s a separate issue from the fact that you chose to do it in your Aunt’s family home after you were asked not to.”

“I wasn’t asked, I was told,” Altair said. (But he was aware that wasn’t the point.) “Are you telling me to do this because you care or because you think if I admit I want to fuck guys I’ll let you fuck me?”

Maria smiled at him and wiggled her eyebrows. He just shook his head at her and her depraved imagination.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> Desmond has problems with depression. I don’t think that I realized it for the majority of my life until it manifested with his refusal to eat or shower and how he slept almost all day long for weeks at a time. Its possible (probable, actually after I looked up some information on the topic) that his depression has existed in innumerous different ways throughout the whole of my life. It still gets bad sometimes. Lucy calls me on the days when she thinks Desmond just needs someone to poke him a bit to make him happy again. I always thought that was a stupid idea, even if I do go bother him on those days, I feel like what he went through in his life is going to necessitate days when nothing seems worth getting up for. 
> 
> There are people that don’t know my life’s story. I’ve had a few conversations where the topic about my parents comes up and sometimes I evade or brush it off. Sometimes, when I’m curious how the person (usually some woman I’m planning on sleeping with) will react when I begin telling her how every parent I’ve ever had is dead now. The way her face falls, the immediate regret at asking and the awkward attempts at sympathy are all fascinating and painful to watch. I feel like I’m a convenient target for their unnecessary worry. 
> 
> It wasn’t always like that. When I was a kid—when I did TV for instance—I would flirt with the other kids on set or the women that worked there by telling them the tragedy of my life. I remember using my Father’s death as a means to strike up a relationship based on the mutual understanding that my pitiful life was more worthy of attention than anyone else’s. The people that were closest to me weren’t immune. I remember using sadness to extract things from Mrs. Finch. 
> 
> My Grandmother had no time for it. She caught me crying in the kitchen one day, sobbing about how I miss my Father (I wanted ice cream) and she didn’t hug me. She didn’t tell me it would be okay. She said a lot of things but the important thing was that I should be ashamed of myself for betraying the love my father had for me just to con my way into getting ice cream. I remember she was so angry. I had to write her essays about Umar, about where he grew up and how he must have lived there. Her thought was the better educated you are, the less likely make stupid mistakes like using tragedy to get your way.
> 
> When she died, the rest of my family tried to be like her. It’s impossible to be like my Grandmother. There is nobody in the world that was as unforgiving, absolute and unwavering as my Grandmother. She never lied and she never tried to soften disappointments. 
> 
> Sometimes, I try to figure out what would upset her the most about the person I am now. What I’ve done that would infuriate her and how she would have ‘corrected this behavior’ before it worsened. I think about the first time after she died that I went whining to someone over my breaking heart. I was heartbroken then, that wasn’t a lie, but the choice to go cry about it had nothing to do with how sad I was. I wanted burritos or something, something we didn’t have in the house. I went crying to Mama Maria about it. I traded grief from my Grandmother’s death for burritos and I imagine that everything I’ve done since then has been a snowball effect of how far I’ve come from the man she wanted me to be.
> 
> That’s what I’ve been doing, lying in bed feeling sorry for myself, convincing myself that I’m not calling my cousin because he’s already depressed and he doesn’t want to deal with me anymore, wondering if my Grandmother could still love me when I’m a spoiled asshole that solves problems with his fists and sometimes wants to fuck other men. 
> 
> It seems so stupid. She’s dead. She would have told me the dead can’t hurt the living. She would have told me I’m doing it to myself. That I’m searching for reasons to be unhappy. That there were real problems to concentrate on. I feel like I’m unravelling something that I don’t want to touch. I’m peeling back these layers of my memories of her and each one hurts a little more than the one before. 
> 
> This wasn’t what I meant to write you. I was going to ask if you wanted to run a contest for any kind of fanfiction that doesn’t involve me being raped as a main plot component. Something about how we meet or something. I’ll read the winner it on my youtube or livestream?  
> 

Malik walked to occupational therapy because it was less than ten miles away. He had started the habit when he was still angrier about his life than he was concerned with the heat and distance. It was the middle of September now and the weather was pleasant. There was a lull while he was walking, a pleasant void where nothing bothered him more than monotonous nature of his footfalls.

Nothing nagged him while he was walking. 

There was only the sun and the air that smelled alternative of car exhaust and fast food and then of flowers planted in the front yard of his neighbors’ houses. 

On days when he couldn’t sort out how he felt about something, he walked until his legs were too tired to stand it like keeping the unwanted things at bay. 

Then there were days when he sat on the bus stop bench, watching traffic, trying to figure out how he felt about the mess he’d made of things. Because there was Altair’s rambling indecisive depression, Leonardo’s willful cruelty, his own guilt and the random, inane, _inadvisable_ suggestion to hold a fanfiction contest. 

Some part of him was longing for someone to _talk_ to and that little piece of himself searching for a sense of direction was _furious_ because six-months-ago he could have invited himself over to Leonardo’s apartment to drink strange tea and argue about (anything, oh Leonardo was good for arguing) and it would have made sense as he deconstructed the problem in his head and put it back together again.

All by himself on a park bench, he couldn’t decide which problem he wanted to deal with first. Maybe he wanted to think of the way Leonardo ducked his head when it was time for him to leave. How he’d said, ‘it was nice to see you again’ like he understood that there was nothing else he could say to make Malik stop being angry. He was so angry, so constantly upset about the stupid fight and the unnecessary pain that had come from it, that there was no forgiveness in his soul. But maybe he wanted to maintain that same standard for Altair. He wanted to be upset with him, steel-backed and unbreakable even as he felt himself crumbling in resolve.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> There is a realization that every adult comes to at some point in their life that is that your parent are also human. While children tend to assume that their caregivers are omniscient beings that should be totally devoted to them, the truth is that your Grandmother was as much a person as you are. If you are capable of aggravated assault but also endearing thoughtfulness, there is no reason to think that your Grandmother wouldn’t be. I imagine that your realization is made all the more painful by the obviously unanswered questions that you have for her. 
> 
> I am aware of the troubled relationship you have with your Aunt but I imagine that if you’re searching for an answer about your family there is possibly nobody more likely to have the time, interest and knowledge to assist you than her. I know that you have problems with her because of her choices regarding Desmond but even your Aunt is a person. At some point, you need to examine what it is that keeps you from forgiving her or allowing her to love you.
> 
> On the other matter, while I cannot imagine why you would want to host a fanfiction contest I would be willing to do it but we will need to figure out details for how the submissions will be judged, what they will contain and when the due date will be. If you have any suggestions, I’d be glad to have them.

While it was entirely possible for Altair to take a shower by himself (tt was actually possible. The stitches in his side had come out and the wound was sealed shut. His only problem was his broken knuckle and the stitches in his hand that couldn’t get wet,) Maria had decided it wasn’t. She dragged him into the shower with her so she could wash his hair. 

“I can do this myself,” he said.

Her response was a quirk of one eyebrow. “Of course you can. That doesn’t seem to stop you.” Her fingers were so much smaller than his own that it was continuously strange to feel them pushing through his hair. Her body was hovering so close to his when she stood in front of him on her toes in the shower that he couldn’t concentrate on anything but how easy it would be to tip her balance off kilter just enough to have her pressed against him from top to bottom. “I am going back to England next weekend, my part in this movie is finished. Will you be going with me or have you sulked enough to return to your own life?”

Altair tipped his head back and she moved her fingers rather than be pulled forward. He used his left hand to rinse the shampoo out. It bought him a few minutes of time to formulate an answer that he ultimately couldn’t manage. “I don’t want to go home,” he said.

“Ah, well I guess I can tolerate you a while longer.” Then she shooed him out of the shower so she could finish washing her own body without him around. 

“You’re too kind,” Altair said.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’ll ask Maria if she’ll help. I’m sure she’ll get a good laugh out of it if nothing else. 
> 
> Thank you for this. And for being patient in general.
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_  
>  I feel that it is very unlikely we will choose the same story. We’ll need a third judge.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  My idea was stories about how we meet that do not involve me being raped. I imagine it would be easier to have your readers vote on their favorite two and then we can read the nominees and decide which one we like best. 

“But,” Kadar said. He held the door so Malik could go through it. The cats were squirming around in their carrier. Aquila’s paw was trying to reach through the slats in the side while Sailor was making unhappy noises from the back corner. (In general, Sailor was displeased about everything that involved the cat carrier.) “I don’t actually _want_ to go on this ‘group date’. I mean, I like having friends and it’s great that Derek thinks that his cousin would be perfect for me but,” Kadar slid forward to grab the second door and opened it too, “Derek is also dating Sara so his opinion isn’t super valid.”

“Don’t go?” Malik said. 

“I’m going to go,” Kadar said. He took the carrier from Malik when they got up to the counter where they had to sign in for the appointment. There was a large dog in the corner of the dog area that perked its ears up at the sound of Aquila’s curious meowing. “I want a girlfriend,” he said as if all hope had been sucked out of the world. “I don’t think I want to date a Muslim girl.”

Malik finished signing in and smiled at the nice girl behind the counter that was listening to his brother with more interest than Malik could fake. “Why?” he asked before he pushed Kadar toward the smaller cat waiting area. He preferred not enraging the dogs with their presence. “I mean besides the fact that there’s a greater variety of possibilities without the religious component?”

“Well, Amina,” Kadar said. “I mean, I really liked her and I would have dated her but she was pretty clear that her parents were interested in traditional values and—Mom won’t care. I just want to find someone that I actually like without having to worry about whether or not my god would approve of our union? My religion is important to me but there’s more than just that?”

It was unclear if Malik was meant to have an opinion there so he just nodded.

“Also I met this girl that’s in my chemistry class. She’s amazing. I was thinking about asking her to go on this group date. Would that be rude? I think I’d spend the whole time thinking about how I could have asked her if I don’t.”

(So, Malik wasn’t actually necessary for the conversation. Kadar kept talking even after the woman motioned them back to the exam room. Malik just nodded along when it seemed appropriate.)

\--

> ### Sexy Saturdays, September 20, 2008: Standards of Practice
> 
> Part of the joy of Sexy Saturday submissions is getting to read through books worth of fun fantasies provided by people who fail to meet the minimum requirements to have their submissions posted. There is also quite a few stories involving near-misses where people very nearly have sex with Altair. I haven’t posted any of them because it’s not the formula of this feature but I simply have so many I’d thought I’d pick a few to share. These are stories of how these lucky women just narrowly escaped having sex with Altair.
> 
> 1\. “I didn’t have sex with Altair because after flirting with me for two hours and making it clear that he was interested the little jerk met this mousy brown-haired bitch that laughed like a donkey. Her eyebrows were like bushes and she talked like someone’s grandmother. I tried to save him from her but I’m pretty sure I saw him leave with her later that night.”  
>  2\. “DON’T TRY TO HAVE SEX IN A CAR. I HAVE AN SUV AND I THOUGHT I DON’T WANT TO BRING THIS STRANGER HOME TO MY APARTMENT AND HE LITERALLY FREAKED OUT WHEN I SUGGESTED IT. HE WOULDN’T EVEN GO NEAR THE CAR. HE JUST KEPT LOOKING AT IT LIKE—IT WAS GOING TO BITE HIM THEN HE MADE UP SOME SHIT EXCUSE AND LEFT.”  
>  3\. “I met Altair at an art museum and we talked about how we had both tried out art and how we had no chance of doing it professionally. I talked for a while and somehow we ended up talking about travelling and different languages so he started speaking in these other languages he knows. I was ready to have sex but when I tried to get him to make a move, he didn’t seem to notice how available I was.”  
>  4\. “Hey I’ve got a story. This one time, I thought I was going to get laid because Altair had danced with me and I was so ready to rip his clothes off but then he asked me if I wanted to go get ice cream and we ended up buying a couple of tubs of ice cream at an all-night store and eating it while we talked about our life’s goals until the sun came up.”  
>  5\. “I met Altair in an airport. I had heard all these stories about how he liked to have sex with everyone so I thought I made myself available to him. I even asked him if he wanted to find a janitor’s closet or something and he actually recoiled. I don’t know if I was that gross or he’s got a thing about closets.”
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: Sexy Saturdays, I: Altair is embarrassing, I: not in small spaces, W: Inappropriate Language, W: Sexual Content_  
> 

Maria was laughing so hard that her face had changed colors. “I love your girlfriend,” she wheezed. She was sitting next to him at the airport while they waited for it to be time to board the plane that took them out of Germany (so long and no fond memories) back to her home in England. While she read the Sett’s last post, she pressed her face against his arm to make it seem like she was trying not to laugh hysterically enough to earn disapproving glares from the other first class passengers. 

Altair sat straight in his seat and flipped through a magazine that promised him ideas about how to improve his stock holdings. When he had to look at her giggling into his sleeve, he shook his head in disapproval. “You’re my girlfriend,” he whispered.

“But what’s wrong with a janitor’s closet?” she mumbled back. He hadn’t read the post and therefore had no idea what she meant with that question. His lack of understanding killed the bright spots of red humor on her cheeks. Then she sat up and tucked her phone away. “Fine, I was trying to read some of the blog since you want me to help you judge this stupid contest idea.”

“You don’t need to read it,” Altair said. 

“I need to read it to understand Sass’ character,” Maria defended. It was a viable defense. He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he asked her if she would be willing to help him judge the contest. Maria had less of an interest in the whole thing than anyone but the appearance of her level of familiarity and ease in dealing with Sass would (hopefully) assist in killing the rumors she was upset by Altair’s friendship.

“Whatever you have to do,” Altair said.

“I haven’t agreed to judge your contest yet.”

Altair sighed and set the magazine on the table next to his chair. There was no outright denial in Maria’s statement but that air of a person who wanted something in return. “What is it? What do you want? This better not involve sex.”

Her lower lip poked out just ever so slightly at that but almost as quickly she swept the whole thing away with a stray hand gesture and said, “I simply have never had sex on a flight before and I heard that you have some manner of experience in the matter. We can even invite a flight attendant if that makes the idea more palatable for you.” 

“There isn’t room to have sex with you on this plane,” Altair said. “There is barely enough room to have—traditional sex and that’s a lot less complicated than what you want.”

“Well fine. I didn’t realize you were so easily intimidated.” She went back to reading on her phone. Her dismissal of him so complete that it felt as if the air around him had indeed dropped several degrees. The slant of her body shifted to make her lean away from him rather than against him and she crossed her legs at the knee. He had not spent so much time around a person with such mastery of their own body that they could mutate their entire personality so quickly (and efficiently) in the whole of his life. 

“We can try,” Altair said after a minute. “No third parties though.”

Maria’s lip quirked up but otherwise she gave no indication that she’d heard him.

 

\--

>   
>  ****
> 
> **Desmond**
> 
> I punched a wall and broke my hand
> 
> What? When? How bad is it?
> 
> A couple of weeks ago
> 
> Why didn’t you tell me?
> 
> I was angry because you were angry at me
> 
> Mature
> 
> I’m sorry I hurt you. I don’t mean your face.
> 
> I can’t tell you I won’t do it again because that seems like a lie
> 
> but I will make the effort to do better
> 
> What happened?
> 
> Are you okay?
> 
> I’m fine. Tell Lucy I said hi

It was probably a bad sign when Desmond’s first reaction to being apologized to was to immediately start listing possible catastrophes. There was always the possibility that Altair had simply found the time to mature to the point of realizing he was wrong.

“You could call him,” Lucy said.

“But he texted me.”

Her answer was a squint-eyed-frown. “Yes, but you can still call him. However if you’re going to, I want to go back to sleep.” Because it was the middle of the night and she had work in the morning. Her lack of concern over the whole situation might have had something to do with the fact that she was barely awake and he was texting on his side of the bed. Her hands went groping through the blankets to find him and tug him back down. “Leave it. You said you weren’t going to fix this for him.” Her arms were pulling him back into place. Her voice was a hum. “Call him tomorrow. Tell him I said hi.”

\--

> ### September 26, 2008: Announcements
> 
> In conjunction with Son-of-No-One, the Sett will be running its first and (most likely) only Saltair Fanfiction Contest. Before anyone can begin arguing about the morals of encouraging anonymous strangers on the internet to write stories about how Altair and I meet (and usually fall in love) when he has an actual girlfriend, allow me to assure you that MariaThorpe is not only aware of this contest but will be one of the judges for it. 
> 
> Our general idea is to invite people to write and submit stories about how Altair and Sass meet in person for the first time that does not involve any emotional or physical trauma inflicted on Altair. For full details please go to the information post here
> 
> In other news, due the success of our first Fun Fact Friday we will be doing another one on October 3 so please submit your questions here.  
>  **Tagged** : _F: News or Announcement, F: Fun Fact Friday, F: Fanfiction Contest_  
> 

The house was unusually quiet without Kadar in it. Mother looked almost as lost as Malik felt with the sudden absence of sound that followed Kadar leaving with several of his friends. Derek’s cousin was a sixteen year old girl with curly brown hair and braces that looked as uncomfortable to be forced along on the group outing as Kadar had been talking about it.

Mother stepped away from the window where she’d been watching Kadar leave and came over to sit in her usual seat. Malik was still standing behind the couch petting Sailor who had glared dispassionately at the loud strangers that trampled all over his house before they departed. He hadn’t even been moved to caring when the girls had doted on him for being so very pretty (and he was very pretty). 

“You should forgive Leonardo,” Mother said as if they had been discussing that at all. They were words from the middle of a conversation that Malik hadn’t had with her. “I do not like to make choices for you. I think it’s important that you make your own but in this you are relentlessly stubborn. I don’t know what he said to your friend but I do know that any love that destroys friendships is not a love that is worth having.”

“Altair didn’t destroy my friendship. The fact that Leonardo is—”

“In love with you,” Mother cut in. “I have seen how angry you are. I have watched you struggle with your urge to protect the man that you love. What you are doing to Leonardo is no more correct than what he did to your friend. If you don’t find a way to forgive him, you will not have him as a friend.”

“I didn’t want him to fall in love with me,” Malik said. “He said he didn’t want that. He always said it.”

Mother shrugged. “Some things are not in our control as much as we would like them to be. Consider forgiving him, considering talking to him about anything. Do not let your stubborn nature make choices for you. That is all.”

“That girl is too young for Kadar.”

“By that logic, you are too young for your chosen partner. Much too young if you consider your ages when he got you drunk to have sex with you.” She did not even look at him when she said it but pick up the novel she was reading and open it to the bookmark in one easy motion. When she did look up her face was utterly guileless. 

“I did not expect you to have opinions about my love life,” Malik said. It was an observation not a condemnation.

“If you think that my poor opinion of your friend is disproportionate, I wish very much that you would have had the chance to meet your Grandmother. She had many things to say about your Father’s decision to marry me. None of them were nice.” There was a faint smile on her face. “But your Father made up his own mind as I expect you will.”

“Did she ever change her mind?”

“No,” Mother said. “My opinion of your choice will change when I am given reason to change it. Thus far I am not impressed but I have not yet met him properly.” She turned her attention back to her book and Malik left her to read it.

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> So why was the brother doing the posting a few months ago?
> 
> Sass was unavailable
> 
> The brother clearly doesn’t feel as strongly about you as Sass
> 
> Good luck with your Aunt.
> 
> Thanks

The call had come from Mama Maria a conspicuous three days after their return to England. According to Mama Maria, she was in London for business and asked to meet him for a drink and to ‘catch up’ but it seemed suspiciously staged. Altair didn’t ask Maria if she had called his Aunt to encourage her to make the effort but agreed to the meeting. 

Mama Maria met him in the sitting area of her hotel suite. There was a server standing at the ready to prepare them drinks and snacks and a spread of papers neatly tucked away in a folder to the side. The room had the air of having been quickly sanitized of other visitors to make him feel as unique and welcome as could be managed on short notice. Mama Maria smiled at him but did not get to her feet to greet him. She gestured toward the seat opposite her. 

There were anonymous ears all around them from the server waiting to pour tea to the men that were undoubtedly waiting to get back into the room to finish their business proposals. He gripped his phone in one hand and hesitated at the edge of the seat. “Mama Maria,” he said the way he had back when he was a chubby kid trying to figure out how to ask for a hug (and failing, very often), “can we walk?”

This surprised her more than anything. There was a protest from an assistant that materialized from somewhere behind Mama Maria but she silenced the man with one raised hand as she nodded her head. After a moment to assure the assistant that Mama Maria would return, she followed him out of the hotel. The street was loud after the suffocating silence of the interior. The smells were many and varied, the air a confusion of warm sun and cool breezes. 

Mama Maria waited for him to offer his elbow and then walked at his side with an attentive glance at the now-mostly-healed damage he had done to his hand. “What is on your mind, Altair?” she asked. 

He’d practiced what he was going to say on the ride to her hotel. He’d practiced it in the shower the night before. He’d rehearsed it when he should have been sleeping and now that he was there with her soft hand on his arm and the weight of her perpetual disappointment in him prodding him from all sides, none of the words he picked made sense. Instead of launching into the speech that he’d prepared he sighed. He said, “I’m not sorry that I hit Leonardo. I know you’ve been angry at me about it since it happened. I’ve been so busy defending myself against accusations of being unreasonable to having hit him when I feel justified that I hadn’t taken the time to apologize for what I am guilty of.”

“Which is?”

The best thing about walking was that he wasn’t obligated to look at her. There were few people left in the world that Altair had any apprehension toward looking at when they were angry but Mama Maria had the unhappy distinction of being at the top of the list. “I’m sorry that I was disrespectful to you. My personal feelings toward Leonardo aside, he was a guest in your house and you asked,” or told, “me not to—fight him while I was there. I should have respected your wishes while I was in your home.”

Mama Maria made a soft noise and patted his arm. “Thank you,” she said. They walked a few paces before she said, “your pride is from your Grandmother. It is my least favorite of her legacies.”

“I had a question about Grandma,” Altair said (before he could chicken out). He looked sideways at a honking car and then back at Mama Maria looking forward as if she had not a single care in all of the world. (But she always looked like that, so perfectly well put together it was sometimes hard to remember she was human.) “Do you know what she thought about—uh, gay people?”

That made Mama Maria’s footsteps falter. She stopped altogether to look at him to divine the reason for his question before taking a moment to think of an answer. “I will tell you a story,” she said as she started walking again. The gentle pull of her hand on his arm guided him to match her pace. “There was a man who worked for your Grandmother. He did landscaping at the mansion—a very nice man who was very tolerant of the obnoxious children that would play there. William was especially fond of throwing dirt at the man and I would steal his things and hide them. We were awful children. It happened one summer that William saw Mr. Stacey—that was his name—kissing another man in the garden. Of course William spread the news to everyone he could find before he finally told Phyllis. At that time, the staff in the house was different and there was a huge fuss about how unsafe it was for Mr. Stacey to work at the house while there were children around.

“The majority of the talk for that day was how Phyllis would fire the man for being a pervert. About how he was a deviant and he must pray on children. I found Mr. Stacey putting his things away, I had taken a pair of gardening shears from him, and he was crying. He told me I shouldn’t be there because he wasn’t safe around children. I went to Phyllis and asked why she would fire Mr. Stacey. Phyllis was furious, Altair. I am sure you remember you Grandmother’s fury but this was unlike anything I’d ever seen. I was very young then, probably ten. I remember thinking that she seemed to have found a way to fill herself with very cold fire. Her voice was never loud but she ordered the staff to fill the grand room and she put me in a seat behind her and William in a seat on the other side and she called for Mr. Stacey to be let in the house. The staff had kept him out. He came with his head up but he was very afraid. I remember thinking he was barely keeping himself from crying. 

“Phyllis looked right at him and in the coldest, meanest, most _awful_ voice a child had ever heard she said, ‘I am ashamed you did not introduce me to your boyfriend. I thought we knew one another better.’ Mr. Stacey did cry then but it was a strange kind of crying. Phyllis hugged him and rubbed his back, he was a very big man and she was not very big at all. But she rubbed his back while he cried and the whole staff stared at her. When he had recovered she said, ‘there is no shame in loving someone who deserves it.’ Then she fired the rest of the staff and she blacklisted all of them.”

Altair didn’t even know that he was crying until he sniffled and Mama Maria turned to hug him. She wasn’t his Grandmother (she was very much different from Grandmother in many ways) but she hugged him the way that Grandmother did. It was stupid and out of place (and in public) when he said, “I don’t want her to hate me.”

Mama Maria squeezed him a little tighter before she released him. “It has been said before, Altair but it bears repeating. I am not sure if your Grandmother knew what love was before she met you. There were days when I was sure she would move heaven and earth to come back to you. I feel, most of the time, that when I see her again she will have many things to say about the mess I’ve made of raising you in her absence.” And then she reached up to wipe his face and smiled at him. He was half-way to smiling back when she said, “I’m surprised you finally got around to realizing you were gay. I imagined you would be in your thirties before you gave in.”

“I’m bisexual, actually,” he said. “I do actually like women.”

“Yes,” Mama Maria said (dryly), “and Maria Thorpe does actually like men.”

“As much as Ezio does,” Altair agreed. 

Oh and the face that Mama Maria made at that was enough to make him laugh. She rolled her eyes and took his arm again to pull him back into a walk. “Men,” she muttered, “I will never understand men.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I unintentionally told my Aunt that I was bisexual. I expect that by the end of the day everyone in the family will know but nobody will be able to talk about it. I went to see her and apologize to her for my behavior and to ask her about my Grandmother. I am not sure how I ended up coming out to her when I was still doing a fairly good job denying it to myself. I didn’t know how relieved I was that it was done and said and that my Grandmother wouldn’t hate me until I got back to Maria. She took me out to dinner for finally admitting it and we went dancing. 
> 
> That was several hours ago now. She’s passed out on the floor and I’m trying to figure out if I want to pick her up or leave her there. She’s pretty heavy for being so small.
> 
> I’m sorry, Sass. I’m sorry that even though I knew what I was going to do would upset you that I did it anyway. It was my choice to go to Italy and therefore my fault that the opportunity to have this fight existed in the first place. I should have cared more about you and how all of this would hurt you than I did my own stupid pride. I’m sorry. There was no excuse for it.

“…and that’s why you stopped listening to me about an hour ago when I’m trying to ask you to be my chaperone because you went off and had butt sex with a twenty year old who got you drunk after prom. So Mom is pretty much sure that if I’m left unattended with this girl of the same age that I’ll do the same dumb crap.” Kadar was watching Malik all but physical fly off into the stratosphere. He had stopped listening (quite a while ago) and spent the interim of the time that Kadar was explaining about how he wanted to have a date with Stephanie (the girl from chemistry) without his Mother around and Malik had gone from attentive to blank staring to vague-smiling and distant daydreaming. “Are you finished planning your wedding?”

“He apologized,” Malik said. The very words themselves seemed to indicate that Malik had never expected that to happen. Then he smiled. “And he told his Aunt he was bi.”

“But will he be my chaperone? That’s what I need to know,” Kadar retorted. “Let’s concentrate on me and how fortunate my love life could be.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Yes. I’ll go—to this movie?”

“Play.”

“Play with you and sit several rows behind you and clear my throat when you get too close to the girl.” But he was right back to making faces at his computer before Kadar could thank him.

\--

> ###  Breaking News at 11: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad _still_ an ignorant asshole
> 
> True to form, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, not even a full fourteen hours after attending a prom at Castle-Mount High School, manages to spread ill-informed, bigoted and generally offensive opinions and advice to anyone that will listen. The prom that Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad attended, most likely as a publicity stunt, had made local headlines for the progressive attitude of the students and faculty alike. This was the first prom for Castle-Mount High School that openly welcomed students of every sexual orientation to attend with a date of their choosing. The imminent Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad announced that he would attend the prom with a close friend (read: friend’s younger sister who seemed less than thrilled when interviewed) purportedly at her request. While this stunt, like many of the other juvenile stunts pulled just this year, was exploitative, attention-seeking and vaguely inappropriate (please Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad, as you have just turned twenty, refrain from attending parties primarily populated by seventeen and eighteen year olds that have not yet technically graduated high school) it was ultimately rather harmless. Unsatisfied by the lack of attention this ‘favor’ garnered, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad resorted to characteristic ignorance with a stunning display of homophobia. And I quote,
> 
> “ _It was kind of uncomfortable, the experience I mean. My family doesn’t believe in that kind of thing, you know? I mean, it’s fine if you think you’re gay or if you want to date a girl or something. It’s just not something I would do. There were just so many guys, you know, dancing with other guys. Where were all the ladies?_ ”
> 
> Possibly, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad since your own date did not even want to spend time with you, they felt as if you simply weren’t worth their notice.
> 
> **Tagged:** _Humble Beginnings, I: transferred from the original blog_  
> 

Maria was awake and sitting at her tiny table tucked into a spot in her kitchen. There was an open bottle of wine sitting next to her laptop and a plate of crumbs resting on the opposite side while she sucked on her fingers.

“That looks nutritious,” Altair said. He yanked open the fridge door and peered inside to find nothing but old cheese and some juice that looked questionable. He picked it up and sniffed it before returning it to the fridge. “We should go out to breakfast.”

“Yeah in a minute, but which woman did you fuck at a high school prom?” she asked. She licked her thumb and looked away from the screen. “I know you are slutty but I think it’s considered morally questionable to have sex with some girl at her prom. Whatever you did to her, I don’t think she app—”

“What?” Altair asked. He turned her laptop so it was facing outward and looked at the Sett’s now familiar layout. The post was from May 2006, so long ago that even if he had read it at one point (and he had) it didn’t seem familiar to him. 

“I mean, whoever that girl was has to be—” She stopped talking when he stood up straight. “Are you okay?” And that was a funny sort of question to ask someone. It seemed like the sort of thing that he should have answered but he was trying to remember how to breath and Maria was turning her head to look back at the computer and then to him. “You know who it is.”

“It wasn’t a girl,” Altair said. 

(His name was Malik. And he ruined my life.)


	51. Chapter 51

> FROM:  
>  TO:  
>  You sanctimonious, lying, hypocritical son of a bitch! Did you think that I’d never find out? Did you think that this fairy tale you’ve been selling me was going to last indefinitely. I’m so fucking stupid because you asked me to protect you from people that would try to figure out who you were and I don’t even know why I agreed. I should have _known_ there was something wrong with you because what fucking person who has nothing to hide drags a relationship out like this? 
> 
> Who creates invisible standards that can’t be met—
> 
> And Jesus fucking Christ, you god damn little bastard. What was your endgame? What was it? You were just going to string me along until I was gagging for it and then oops, the big reveal was that you had a dick and you WERE THE ONE THAT FUCKED UP MY WHOLE LIFE ANYWAY. 
> 
> Well good job you little bastard because I fucking loved you.  
>  **Save as Draft?**  
> 

The thing was. The _thing_ was that Altair’s fingers were poised over the keys and he couldn’t bring himself to fill in the TO e-mail. He couldn’t bring himself to send it (or save it) because there was a loop of reproach in his head asking for patience and _thought_. Every part of his body, every bit of him that was the leftovers of the spoiled boy his Grandmother raised wanted to send the message. It was filling him up like floating until his head was an endless litany of the things that he would _do_.

Oh in comparison to anything he’d ever managed before, the unholy vengeance that would rain down on this _man_ who had spent all this time lying to him would be akin to a precise nuclear explosion. Altair had the taste of blood in his mouth and the cold _certainty_ of his own wounds. 

(And yet, _yet_ it was Sass’ words in between his ears saying things like: remember the things you choose to do have lasting effects on the people you do them to.) 

“Son of a bitch!” he shouted at the screen and slapped the keyboard shut. He tipped his head back and pressed his hands over his face. Three-four-weeks ago he would have started hitting things and not stopped and the violence was coiled up in his hands and beating through his chest. 

(What was he thinking? What was that thought that kept him from beat his fists into the wall? _You’ll have more scars than tattoos_ and things like _I can’t be with you now_ and wasn’t that fucking _ridiculous_?)

“What are you going to do?” Maria asked. She had relocated from the table in her kitchen to hovering around him while he sat on the couch beating his hands into the keyboard hoping half the things tumbling around in his head came out as words. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Fuck him,” Altair snapped. He stood up in one long motion like he could stamp his feet to the ground and get rid of the idle, spiraling energy that was filling out his limbs. “Fuck that stupid _bastard_!”

“Well you did,” Maria said as she sat. Her legs were tucked up under her as if she were trying to make her body as small as possible. 

“What was—fuck! What was even the point? What was he even trying to do?” It seemed to monumental to think through. He couldn’t think of any one thing but skip through all of it with chaotic twists and eddies because, “I wore skirts for that bastard and he _lectured_ me on how despicable my behavior was! He _makes money_ off coming up with new ways to humiliate me!” And worse, by far than that, worse than any of it. “Federico was fucking right! It’s a joke!”

“I don’t think it is,” Maria said quietly. 

“What the fuck do you know?” Altair shouted at her. “You’ve known for what—five minutes? This has been my _life_ for the past two years! Look at my life, look at what I’ve done to it for what? For _what_?”

“Altair, but listen—I don’t think he meant for this to happen. I read the whole blog and—”

“That’s an useless excuse. Meant for it to happen or not, it did _happen_. So tell me why the fuck I had to figure it out. Tell me why some fucking-- _homo_ from _Connecticut_ couldn’t find the _balls_ to tell me that he had a dick! Tell me why the liar expects me to believe that _he loves me_ when there’s no reason to think _any of it was true!_ ” 

“Fine,” Maria said. Just like that, dusting her hands of the whole situation. Her face went blank of emotion. “Destroy him. Feed his story to the news—pick one that won’t quit until they’ve sucked him dry of any hope. Ridicule him wherever you go. You’re not gay. This _homo_ —”

“Shut up,” Altair said. “He’s lied to me for two fucking years. I’m allowed to freak out for ten fucking minutes. I’m going to for a run.” Then he went to get his running shoes and Maria sighed at him as he walked away. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I don’t want to be angry
> 
> Well that doesn’t seem to be your strong suit.
> 
> No it isn’t
> 
> The last guy that pissed you off has a blog dedicated to him.
> 
> If you were interested in moving on from this unfortunate circumstances, I would suggest finding a topic to discuss that doesn’t involve your boyfriend.
> 
> How’s the weather?
> 
> It is currently sunny.

Kadar’s date was on a Tuesday. A group of local college kids were putting on the play in the only playhouse in the city. The name of it was unfamiliar to him but the program he’d been given at the door told him that it was an original play written and directed by Amy Sharpner. Malik’s part in the date was to sit in the row behind Kadar and watch him to make sure he kept his hands to himself. (It seemed like he was most likely the least trustworthy person in the world to have that task. It didn’t bother him at all if Kadar wanted to hold Stephanie’s hand. It didn’t bother him if Kadar wanted to kiss her either.)

Stephanie was a pretty-ish sort of girl. She was almost as tall as Kadar and wore button down shirts (like Kadar) with a pleated skirt that went to her knees and Mary Janes (basically, Mother would love her beyond reason). While she didn’t wear glasses, the whole of person seemed to suggest that she should. When she spoke, her tone was soft and her words were well-chosen. 

Malik sat upright in his seat when he wanted to slouch and sleep through the student-production (the production team hadn’t done a bad job but the writing was shoddy and terrible in a way not even the actors could save). He cleared his throat half-way through the play out of boredom and Kadar turned half around in his seat to sneer at him like demanding to know what he’d done. It was easier to wave a finger at him and imply he was aware of his brother’s inner thoughts than communicate the level of exhaustive boredom he was experiencing. 

“So,” Stephanie said when they were finally released from the humid interior of the playhouse. “If you’re the oldest brother, who chaperoned dates for you?” They were walking toward the little ice cream shop that was on the same road as the playhouse and from there, Stephanie’s Mother was supposed to come pick her up. 

“He didn’t date,” Kadar said. “Also, it doesn’t matter to him.”

“Yeah,” Malik agreed. “That.” 

Stephanie smiled at everything Kadar said. The lean of her body implied how much she would have liked to have her hands on his brother but she was respectful in the same way the guys at college were. All the pretense of ‘appreciating boundaries’ layered thinly over the intense desire to touch. “Did you enjoy the play?”

Malik hung back a few steps to give them the pretense of privacy. Kadar explained his feelings about the play with his hands and the up-down intensity of his voice. Stephanie laughed and nodded. (This was exactly the sort of thing he thought he would have talked to Leonardo about. The ridiculous pretense of the whole exercise. And Leonardo would have protested on the part of young love.)

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> As predicted, I am sure that the rest of my family now knows that I’m gay. It isn’t even that I am gay but bisexual. I tried explaining this to my Aunt but she seems to think that the hundreds of women I’ve slept with were ‘just for show’. As if it’s physically possible to fuck that many people just to pretend you weren’t gay. Or maybe it is, I wouldn’t know. The important part isn’t what I should call myself but the fact that now everyone in my family knows and nobody will ever talk about it. There’s an understanding that Federico, Ezio and Claudia will have their share of giggles over it. It’s inoffensive when it’s stuck between them except that you can tell they’ve been laughing at you behind your back when you walk into the room with them. 
> 
> See because Ezio’ can’t help but grin. Federico can’t help but look at his brother and Claudia _laughs_ at a memory of the last mean thing they said in jest.
> 
> I guess it’s always been like that. They do it to one another too. I’ve seen Ezio and Federico get into fist fights over Claudia’s ill-timed giggles and Ezio’s compulsive grin. In my house, Grandmother told me the truth all the time. It didn’t matter how dark or terrible it was. It didn’t matter how she thought it would hurt me, she understood that the truth was worth more than lies and half-spoken things. 
> 
> So now I’m a joke again. Or still. It’s fair to say that I’ve never _not_ been a joke. 
> 
> There are days when I think you’re the last grasp of sanity in the world, Sass. The one that I know I can trust to tell me the truth. Thanks for that, Sass.

Altair had ‘gone for a run’ two days ago. Maria had sent him a single text in the time he was gone to be sure that he hadn’t been killed. He came home in the clothes he’d bought the morning before, smelling like the girl that had eagerly smeared her red-red lipstick all over his dick with a fresh set of bandages on his left arm. The pain of the new tattoo was minimal (almost non-existent really) but he had fallen over at some point between the bar with the lipstick girl and waking up in a hotel he only sort of remembered paying for. There was a bruise on his shin that was blue and spotty and hurt every time he put his foot down. 

Then there was Maria standing in the doorway of the apartment with one hand on her hip and the other on the door like barring him from entering. She was shaking her head at him with her eyes-wide-open and her mouth caught in a scowl. 

“What?” he demanded. “Nobody saw me.”

“Nobody saw you?” she repeated. “Will there be a new set of stories for your friend’s sexy Saturdays? How many women did you fuck?”

Altair snorted at that. He leaned against the frame and contemplated if he were still a little tipsy or if he were just too angry to care. (It was a hard choice to make. He’d been weighing it back and forth for the past two days, licking the taste of anger and hurt out of his cheeks until he’d forgotten what life was like before it.) “Jealous?”

“You smell like whore,” Maria said. 

Well that was an insult to the woman (women?) that he’d had sex with. “Maybe I just miss doing what _I_ want. Maybe I don’t want to give up fucking people for _you_ or my _other_ fake _girl_ friend.” He could have said more but Maria yanked him into the apartment by the shirt and didn’t even try to catch him when he stumbled. He was laughing when he got his feet under him again and she was shaking her head and locking the door. 

“Sleep on the couch,” she said. Then she left him in the front room as she went back to her bedroom. “Take a shower first. I don’t like the smell of whore on my furniture.”

“Why are you taking his side?” Altair shouted. “Is it because you’re both fucking liars?”

He expected to hear the sound of her bedroom door slamming shut and instead of that there was the smooth sound of her bare feet coming back up the hall to stand in the doorway. Her face was pink with irritation but her bare teeth were wet-and-white as she sucked a breath in through them. 

“You’re hurt right now so I’m willing to walk away from this. But don’t you _ever_ call me a liar because of the secrets I keep. They are _my_ secrets and keeping them doesn’t make me a liar.”

Altair laid on the couch with his head pillowed on the arm. “I think telling Entertainment Tonight how much you enjoy my hot body and how you fantasize about what our kids will look like is _lying_ Maria.”

“You are _repulsive_ ,” Maria said. Then she left again. This time the sound of her door slamming shut echoed with enough force that something fell off the walls and shattered. Altair smiled to himself as he closed his eyes. He scratched idly at the bandage on his left arm before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to touch it while it healed.

\--

> [Livestream feed starts with Altair is sitting at a table, there is a stack of index cards on his right side and a steaming pizza on his left. He is licking pizza sauce off his thumb.]
> 
> **Altair:** Welcome to our second fun fact Friday. Maria couldn’t be here so it’s just me and Sass on Twitter. And everyone will have to forgive me but I was hungry so I made this pizza. But to the questions!
> 
> **Altair:** The first question is: has Altair had sex with Sass and if so when? [Altair sets down the card and picks up his phone.] Sass says, yes and before the blog started. What she didn’t say was that sex with me was revolutionary but I’ll give her a technical win. 
> 
> **Altair:** Next question is, what did Altair get for his fourth birthday? [Altair looks at his phone.] Ha. Sass says I didn’t get any gifts for my birthday so it’s a trick question. Technically, she’s not wrong. My Grandmother didn’t let people buy me presents because we had huge parties. 
> 
> **Altair:** This one is fun. What is Altair’s favorite sex position? I think that violates the rules so Sass can’t answer it. So the next one is, what is Altair’s favorite breakfast food? Sass, predictably, says Mamuneh'ya. That’s right and if you don’t know what it is learn how to google or ask Sass. She likes answering things. 
> 
> **Altair:** Next question: What is the oldest piece of clothing in Altair’s closet? I like this question. Let’s see what Sass has to say. [Altair picks up a piece of pizza while staring at his phone. A minute passes before it chimes to indicate there’s a new message.] Sass says she doesn’t know. That means we get to ask Sass something, but it needs to be something good. So—uh, [Altair looks at the pizza in his hand]. What’s your favorite type of pizza? 
> 
> Altair: [Looks at phone when it chimes.] Sass says. _I don’t like pizza_. You should Sass. Pizza is fucking _delicious_.

Kadar was holding the laptop in his lap while Malik typed out his answers on his phone (the smaller keypad was easier for quick responses) but both of them were just staring at the screen while Altair made out with the pizza. “What the hell happened to your boyfriend?” Kadar whispered.

There wasn’t a lot that made Malik’s whole expression go lax with indecisive ignorance but he was blinking at the screen as if nothing _computed_ in the hollow space in his skull. “I—he said that his family would make fun of him for being gay.”

“Well they’re all dicks,” Kadar mumbled. But the more troubling thing was the sheer amount of anger that was evident in Altair’s face. The clear challenge that was being issued to whomever had pissed him off and the clinical violence in the way he ate the pizza in his hand. “Maybe you should ask him what’s going on. I think something’s broken.”

“Mom said not to solve his problems for him,” Malik said. Then he motioned at the screen. “Besides, from past experience there’s no reasoning with him like that. I missed the question. What was the question?” There was no way (that Kadar knew of) to rewind the livestream so Malik had to forfeit the question. Altair was on the screen sucking pizza sauce off his finger while he pretended to think of something worth asking. 

“How many people have you had sex with?”

Malik let out a breath like he’d been hit and Kadar looked at him in the split second between the wounded look on his face and the steely mask of indifference. He looked at his phone resting in his lap and grimaced as he picked it up again and started typing with his thumb.

“You don’t have to answer,” Kadar whispered.

“Its fine,” Malik said _but it wasn’t_.

Altair on the screen put down his pizza to lift his phone up in front of his face. The dismissive flat-look of his face was nothing compared to the awful tilt of his eyebrow before he looked from the screen to the webcam he was broadcasting on. “Seventy four? Not bad Sass. Think you might need to retroactively apologize to me for that time you tried calling me a slut, but I can respect a _woman_ that likes sex.”

Kadar was looking at Malik, not the computer, and Malik was glaring at the screen. “Hey,” Kadar said. “Are you just going to let him say that?”

It took effort for Malik to move his jaw and his voice was a low kind of sound that meant nothing-good-at-all when he said, “you think there’s a point to talking to him right now? I don’t want to miss the next question.”

“Sure,” Kadar said. There was no point arguing with Malik the way there was no point in continuing playing this game only Altair had the rules for. 

\--

MariaThorpe: to the miserably small-minded that have taken the opportunity to heap disparaging comments on @Sass-Badger regarding her choices about her own body, shame on you. (1h ago)

MariaThorpe: It is 2008, the fact that we are still obsessed with pairing the notion of worth and virginity is actually quite sickening (1h ago)

MariaThrope: consider, if you will, that @sass-badger has had approximately 74 partners but @son-of-no-one has had possibly as many as ten times that amount and nobody is calling him a slut. (1h ago)

MariaThorpe: If @Sass_Badger is a worthless whore, @son-of-no-one is ten times less worthy (1h ago)

Sass_Badger: @MariaThrope, I appreciate the support and I understand your point but neither myself nor @son-of-no-one is worthless based on the number of people we have had sex with. (1h ago)

MariaThrope: I maintain you are the superior person. @Son-of-no-one has privilege to make up for the abuse. You deal with a great wealth of unnecessary opinion and do so with grace (1h ago)

MariaThorpe: You’re a blessing @sass_badger (1h ago)

Sass_Badger: Thanks @MariaThorpe. (50m ago) 

On occasion, while jogging, Malik happened to be brought to a standstill at a corner waiting for the crosswalk light to change. Sometimes (but not too often) he found himself standing next to a Mother and child(ren). It happened, almost every time, that the kid would stare at the pinned up sleeve of his fall jacket with wide-wide eyes and her mouth in a curious circle of half-expressed questions. It wasn’t every child that blurted out, “but where’s your arm? Is it in your jacket?”

The mother of every child that did ask looked as embarrassed (mortified really) as the Mother found himself jogging in place next to that particular moment. She was caught between dragging her curious preschooler down the road toward safety from the awkward situation and apologizing. The words would come out as a tumble of platitudes, all of them meant to excuse herself and her regretfully loud child from any responsibility. 

“No,” Malik said to the girl. He looked at her Mother, “its okay. I don’t mind.” He had, in the beginning. He was offended and hurt by the stares and the questions. The whole world had seemed to be out to get him and he had been content to be its victim. While he did not enjoy looking at himself in the mirror—the awkward assymetrical strangeness of his own body offended him—he did not mind the double-takes and awkward glances when he was outside. 

“Where’d it go?” the girl asked.

There was no good way to answer questions like that. Malik looked at the Mother who was still fending off her own embarrassment. “I had an accident,” Malik said. Then the light (thankfully) turned green and he waved as he took off jogging across the street. 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> When I was six my Grandmother decided I was too old for training wheels and she bought me a bike without them. I remember I was crying on her bed about how it was difficult and how I didn’t even want to ride the bike. She picked me up and stood me by the bed and said, ‘you have all the will power in the world. You have convinced yourself you don’t want to ride the bike because you’ll afraid you’ll fall off and make a fool out of yourself. Well, you will. You’ll fall and you’ll get hurt and you’ll embarrass yourself crying. Then you’ll get up and you’ll get back on the bike until you’ve figured it out. You’ll be glad you did.’
> 
> I was thinking about that recently because I’ve been convincing myself for so long that I have no interest in men that I honestly believed it. So now I’ve gone off and admitted it and can’t do anything about it. When I agreed to do this thing with Maria the understanding was that I got to decide when it was over. If I wanted to go explore the fine world of having sex with men, it’s not impossible.
> 
> Except the only experience that I have actually having sex with men is when I had sex with Malik. That wasn’t exactly an enjoyable experience. What I remember is that we ended up making out on top of pizzas. I keep thinking about it and every time I make myself sit still and think about it, I remember something else, you know? Like the way I really liked touching him. I remember how he kissed me like he had no idea what to do. I think that’s why I liked it, because I didn’t have to worry about embarrassing myself when he obviously didn’t have any idea what he was doing. I fucked him, I remember that. I remember turning him over on his stomach and licking the pizza sauce off his back. I liked fucking him. I didn’t do a good job of it. I’ve fucked girls in the ass before because they asked but I’m usually sober when it happens. I just remember being overwhelmed with how it was happening, how I was actually fucking this guy.
> 
> But I think I can do better. That was like falling off a bicycle. It was an embarrassment for me. I’m just not sure that I want to dump Maria to go exploring with other men.  
> 

It was three AM and Altair was sitting in the kitchen with a box of cracker (the kind that you ate cheese on) and a glass of milk. Days (and days, and a few more days) later the anger that had been a constant burn in his gut had dimmed to a simmer that spread throughout all his limbs. He wasn’t on _fire_ with rage but betrayal was filling his dreams and his blurry in-between thoughts.

He couldn’t sleep when he was thinking about the stupidity of the situation. He was trying to pick back through his life to find how _this_ had happened. How he had gone from detesting Sass to falling in love with her (only she wasn’t a woman, was she? No. She was a man). He couldn’t pick the moment when it happened and he couldn’t pick out anything from the great storm of half-thoughts and half-intentions in his head. Part of him wanted to crush Malik, wanted to grind him into dust and spread his shame out across the globe. 

Then there was the first-moment after he woke-up when his hand curled around his phone and he was looking for messages before he remembered the _truth_. It wasn’t even heartbreak that was turning his thoughts to poison but _anger_. 

Maria interrupted the silent watch over his computer (and his perpetually empty inbox) when she came to the kitchen to find something to eat. She was wearing a bathrobe over her pajamas and didn’t spare him more than a half glance before moving past him to her cupboards. “What stupid shit have you done now?” she asked.

Altair’s grin was reckless. “I told him I was thinking about fucking other guys,” Altair said. He watched the flinch go through her whole body and laughed at it. Just a quiet exhale of breath through his nose before he pushed another whole cracker into his mouth. “He hasn’t replied.”

“I—” Maria slapped her hands on the counter and then turned to look at him. “How can you be so sincere and so inherently kind and do _this_? How? This person?” her voice was getting louder, the tone escalating as she motioned at the screen. “Meant _the world_ to you last week and the week before. _This person_ loves you! This person _knows_ the worst you are capable of and they haven’t run off—who the fuck cares if it’s man?”

“I do!” Altair shouted back. “I care! Why are you taking his side? He lied to me!”

“You deserved it!” Maria shouted back. “You faggot! You cocksucking fuck! Look at you! Look at what you did to Leonardo! Why the hell would he tell you anything? So you could do this? So you could drag him out and beat him in public? You’re a disgrace to the love he has for you.”

“I didn’t lie,” Altair said.

“Yes, you’re perfect,” Maria snapped. Then she rolled her eyes and went to leave. He grabbed her arm (as a reflex, an aggravated gesture at being ignored) and she slapped him across the face. He let her go and she said, “don’t touch me,” before she walked away.

Altair stared at the ground until the colors blurred and then sat back down in the chair that he’d been in before. He picked up another cracker and pushed the whole thing into his mouth. 

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Desmond M [Shirley.Templar@gmail.com]
> 
> So I had promised myself I was going to stay out of this but what the hell is going on with your cousin? There’s a difference between letting these two idiots work it out on their own and whatever it is your cousin is currently doing. I don’t know the guy personally so I can’t say for sure but I know Sass and I know that it takes something malicious and awful to make Sass this upset. So if you could just ask your dick face cousin what the fuck crawled up his ass and died that would be great.

The real trouble with the e-mail from Sass’ brother wasn’t that it was asking him to get involved with Altair (after he’d promised himself he wasn’t going to) but that the brother had been relatively calm and collected through hellish situations. The boy had managed to get Desmond’s respect (a feat that was not easily managed) simply because of his ability to maintain control over his emotions through the hell that had to follow a major accident involving a family member. The fact that the e-mail existed and was filled with such aggravation and protective instinct was troubling.

“You’re making the face,” Lucy said when he stood by her counter waiting for his drink. He had walked to the coffee shop after getting the E-mail out of simple habit. (Also the fact that he could have coffee was a plus.) “What happened? Is it something you can explain in five minutes?”

“The brother sent me a mail asking what was wrong with Altair,” Desmond said. He stepped over so he was closest to the wall so anyone else waiting for a drink could come to the window and get it while he talked. “If he’s attacking Sass, it has to be something serious?”

“Right, because he’s never attacked her before,” Lucy said. She passed his drink and winked when he turned it to see the bed drawn on the side. There was a fairly lewd drawing of two little silhouettes on a bed that he covered with his hand. “If you’re serious about making him handle this on his own—you can’t do anything. If he wanted to talk to you, he would have called.”

“What do I tell the brother?” Desmond asked.

“Tell him to tell Sass to take the gloves off. She’s been patient long enough.” Then Lucy blew him a kiss. “Now go, I have a line.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Actually, out of all of my sexual skills, my blow job technique was the weakest point. There was a combination of the fact that I felt the dicks I was meant to suck were attached to people that I felt were primarily morons. I like to reserve the sexual favors I like the least for people I like the most. I have not given as many blow jobs as I’m certain you’ve received but I can give you a general review of the idea if you’d like. 
> 
> So take a carrot or something and warm it up a little and shove it into your mouth. While it’s there, have someone grab the back of your head and say stupid things like ‘oh yes suck it’ and then when you’re finished drink a few teaspoons of your own ejaculate. That’s approximately what giving head to a moron is like.
> 
> Thankfully, Leonardo is equally skilled at giving and receiving head. Since he hates people pulling his hair (or even touching his head in general) he’s respectful enough not to pull mine. His penis is really rather perfectly shaped for my head-giving preferences. I might just be biased since approximately 97% of the blow jobs I’ve given have been the ones I did for him. 
> 
> Pro-tip, one that I know you’ll appreciate since you’ve acknowledged how you’ve passed them out before, but if you want to avoid getting the taste of semen stuck in your mouth, tell the guy to come on your face. I remember you saying it gave the woman you did it to a dewy youthful look so maybe it’ll help wash the asshole off yours.
> 
> Stop e-mailing me until you’re finished with whatever the fuck you’re doing.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  Is it rude to ask you what it’s like to give a blow job? I’ve been watching porn lately and I’m unconvinced it’s something that I would be interested in. Maria said once I’d probably be good at it since I’m so preoccupied with using my mouth. But then Maria wants to fuck me with her strap on so her opinion is invalid. I remember you saying once you liked reading fat classics and sucking dick. 
> 
> So like, how is it? Is it worth it? I know that semen tastes disgusting but do you just get used to the flavor after so many dicks or is it always that kind of disgusting? Like, what about it do you like? 

Malik was _shaking_ from how angry he was. He was _shaking_ with it and it spread through his whole body so suddenly and so immediately that it felt like the whole world was shaking with him. His fingers were fumbling at the keys of his phone but he managed to punch in the right number after a few fumbled misdials.

The phone rang twice and Leonardo picked it up with a lazy sounding, “I was sleeping.”

“Hey,” Malik said. Wasn’t-that-funny how the shaking as in his voice too. 

“What happened?” Leonardo said. There was nothing lazy in his voice. Wherever he was, Malik could close his eyes and see the way his whole body straightened up. “I can be there in like four hours. What happened? Is your Mother okay? Is it Kadar?”

Malik closed his eyes and leaned his face against the phone. If he’d had a second hand (but he _didn’t_ ) he might have rubbed his knuckles against the wrinkles on his forehead. “No, they’re fine. Just—just talk to me.”

“No,” Leonardo said. “I’m putting pants on. I’m coming over there.”

Malik laughed like he was going to cry. “You live in Minnesota, Leonardo.” And his voice was cracking but the shaking had stopped. “Please just—talk to me.”

“I can talk and put my pants on. Distraction? Diversion? Confrontation? What do you want?” Leonardo was putting on pants. There was a jangle of a belt in the background and the sudden drop of change and wallet on a desk. The little gusts of effort of putting his legs into the pants interrupted his smooth-sounding words. 

“Distraction,” Malik said softly. “Are you going to come?” He wasn’t even sure if he wanted him to or he wanted common sense to prevail. There was layers of anger sloughing off his back and he couldn’t remember (now) why he’d been so furious at this man. (Oh, right, because he’d told Altair exactly what he thought of him. What had he said? _You can try the rest of your life and never make up for the hurt you inflicted on Sass._ That wasn’t true because Malik had hurt himself without any help at all. Over-and-over again.) 

All the motion on the other side of the phone halted. The silence went on a half-breath too long (and he could imagine Leonardo’s face while he tried to work out what to do), “yes.” The word was so final and so absolute there was no arguing with it. “I started drawing cranes. Not the birds but the ones that they use to build things.”

“Why? Trying to combine engineering and art again?” He leaned down until his face was pressed against the table in front of him and closed his eyes. If he didn’t look around him, he could imagine he was in Leonardo’s bedroom again, laying on his bed, listening to him talk about _anything_.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> What would you do if Desmond lied to you
> 
> About something important?
> 
> Am I really the right person to ask?
> 
> I’d ask Desmond but he’d forgive you because he’s conditioned to.
> 
> That’s a tough question. I love Desmond but I’m also aware of his weaknesses. Desmond has lied to me, not about anything important, but about things he thinks would upset me. He doesn’t handle my anger well.
> 
> I want to angry about the fact that he doesn’t trust me to hold my temper but I remember it’s not about me. He didn’t lie because he wanted to spare me. He lied because he cannot cope with my anger.
> 
> The solution isn’t to get angry at him. It’s not to make him feel worse about it. I told him that I would like for him to tell me the truth and that if he couldn’t do it in person a text message while I’m out of the house would suffice.
> 
> I told him I would stay away until I could be calm.
> 
> If someone lied to you to be malicious, to take something from you or to hurt you that’s unforgivable. But there’s a lot of reasons to lie and not all of them are unforgivable.
> 
> How is Desmond?
> 
> Well, he misses you. He’s okay. He’s got a job at a bar again.
> 
> I go watch him work sometimes. He’s really good.
> 
> Yeah. He is
> 
> Thanks

Altair moved out of Maria’s apartment to a hotel suite. It might have been nice to ask her opinion about it (but then again he didn’t care). It was easier to think with blank space around him. Hotels were as much like home as anywhere he’d ever lived. The smell of the fresh laundry and the familiar anonymity of reusable space stretched back in his memory as long as he could remember anything.

There was nothing personal in the hotel. 

He laid in the bathtub with his eyes closed and Sass’s (no _Malik’s_ ) words running races around his head. Every single one of them chosen like a knife with more precision than Altair’s meager attempts to evoke a bitter response could claim. He was a fumbling child in comparison to the deadly accuracy that Malik employed. 

The thing was. The _thing_ that hurt the worst wasn’t the intentional taunt that Malik had-fucked and liked-fucking Leonardo but that Altair _cared_ that he was _hurt_ by the implication. 

It shouldn’t have been a shock because there was a black band on his arm and a scar on his fist and both of them were Sass’s marks on his skin (one way or another). Nothing in his life had ever felt as _right_ or as _welcome_ as knowing Sass loved him had been. 

Sass-was-Malik-was-Sass and whoever the hell was on the other end of the e-mails had finally had enough of him. 

(Wasn’t that what Sass said, _you can get rid of me_. Now he just had to figure out if he really wanted to.)

\--

> ### Castle-Mount High School Graduating Class is Proud to Be First Class to have an ‘all-inclusive’ Prom
> 
> The graduation for Castle-Mount high was full of the usual moments. The audience was composed of weeping but proud parents. The graduates were anxious and proud while they waited in their seats. The class valedictorian, Malik Al-Sayf, gave a stirring speech about the responsibility to make positive change in the world. But most spectacular of all was…

“What did you want?” Maria demanded when she showed up in his hotel room. There was no forgiveness in the hard lines of her body. Even if she looked like she was expecting to meet him for an outing (or sex, her dress could go either way), every hard line of her body clearly outlined the damage she would do to him if he tried to go near him.

“Sass’ name is Malik Al-Sayf,” Altair said. He turned his laptop around on the table in the dining area of the suit. She looked at it without being impressed. “I’ve been sending him—just whatever I thought would hurt his feelings. I taunted him about the night we met. But he told me not to talk to him anymore and I was still mad so I looked him up. I mean, look me up and you’ll find everything. That’s not important. I found him. You know, I met him at a prom. He was guarding the punch and telling the students to stay away from it.” Altair pushed his hands through his hair and tried to work through the revelation again. With his eyes closed, the slow-gathering shame that he felt was more tolerable. “I thought he was a teacher?”

When he opened his eyes Maria was frowning at the screen as she dragged it across the table to look at it. “You didn’t know? Did you even read his blog?” she asked. Her eyes were quick scanning the brief article the paper in his home town had published about him as Valedictorian. “He was seventeen.”

“When I first started talking about how afraid I was of being _gay_ ,” that word was still hard to push out of his mouth, “he said that he had tortured himself for the things he couldn’t change. He said, the things you are afraid of will not always be monsters.”

Maria sat down in the seat at the end of the table. As she sat, she closed the laptop so she had an unobstructed view of him.

“Leonardo said that I can never make up for the damage I did to him.” Altair had thought that meant whatever meanness he’d thrown at Sass in the years since they met online. He thought it meant the pointless comments and the mean asides. He hadn’t _considered_ anything deeper. “I told Sass that I fucked this guy named Malik at a prom and that Malik ruined my life.”

The pain that went through Maria’s face was so visceral and real that there was no mistaking its authenticity. The distance between them was broad enough that she couldn’t reach him but if she could have, she might have hit him again. 

“I told him the day after his birthday,” Altair said. 

“Well you didn’t know then,” Maria said.

“I did know though. I did know when I sent him the mail telling him he was an embarrassment and a mistake. I knew when I sent him the one asking if he liked giving head. I knew—I _knew_. He was _seventeen_ , Maria. What if I—”

Maria licked her lips and looked to the side for a minute. Hurt and anger were warring on her face as she flinched away from the words she almost-said to clear her throat instead. “Stay away from him,” she nodded. “Until you figure out what you’re going to do. Because there’s no doubt, Altair. You don’t need to ask him what happened that night. You know what happened. Nobody starts that blog,” she motioned at the computer, “for a one-night stand that didn’t work out. Nobody writes the things that he did because they were peeved about being left without a good-bye. He was a fucking _kid_.”

Altair nodded. He was numb (by now) but there was a heated pain behind his eyes when he let a breath out through his mouth. His tongue was dry on his dry lips and there was a watery slip of snot in his nose. “He lied to me because he knew what I’d do if I knew the truth. I understand that but he _lied_ to me.”

“He didn’t lie very well,” Maria said. “If he didn’t want you to know, if he really didn’t want you to know, he wouldn’t have left that post up. He wouldn’t have kept talking to you. He wouldn’t be standing there waiting for you _now_. Do you understand? The lie is bad. Is it worse than what you’ve done?”

There was no pulling the answer to that question apart. Every part of him was raw with emotion, hurt over discovering the truth, battered by his own meanness and flayed to the bone with the realization of his own guilt. “Can we keep fake dating?” he asked. “I can stay here or go home. Whatever.”

“We can keep fake dating as long as you figure out your shit before you do more damage,” Maria said. “You can stay here. I don’t want you in my apartment.”

Altair nodded. “Sure.” And then since she came all this way, “thanks. Do we need to go get lunch?”

“Can you fix this,” she motioned at his whole face, “long enough to manage it?”

Altair smiled at her and she nodded. 

“That’s convincing enough, I guess.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m sorry that I have been intentionally and maliciously crude to you. You deserve better. I am going to take some time to sort out things. I will be available to maintain our public relationship but I feel like it is best for now if our private communication is limited. There are not many things left in my life that I would be devastated to lose but you are high on that list. 
> 
> I am sorry, Sass. Please don’t think less of yourself because of me.

Malik didn’t tell his Mother that Leonardo was coming into town (partially because he was still resolving his denial about it. Partially because he was working through his guilt about how it was happening at all) and as such he had to take a series of buses to get to the airport. Once he was there, he sat outside the terminal staring at his hand and feeling conspicuous and obvious. 

When he wasn’t furious at assholes that were intentionally hurtful he was _ashamed_ that he’d gone off whining to Leonardo and dragged him half-across the country to give him a hug so he would feel better. When he wasn’t ashamed, he was preoccupied with what a fucking _waste_ his whole life had become. 

He was half-way through trying to make sense how he’d gone from a Valedictorian in high school to a whimpering one-armed-slut getting bent out of shape about the mean comments of his internet-boyfriend. 

“Hey,” Leonardo said when he dropped (abruptly) into the seat next to Malik. “Sofia is coming tomorrow.”

Malik sighed. “She can’t afford to—”

“She can,” Leonardo said. “I painted a couple of pictures for them and the Auditore’s paid me enough to buy a house. Also, if I need cash I can just call up my new sugar daddy and invite him out for a fuck.” Leonardo was smiling but the grin didn’t match the concern in his eyes. He didn’t touch Malik (for the best) but the intent was there nonetheless. “Do you want to go home?”

“No,” Malik said. “There’s a hotel down the street. I don’t know how much it costs.”

“Let’s go,” Leonardo said. He stood up and caught Malik’s hand to pull him up after him. Once they were both standing he held onto him with a loose grip and pulled him down the hall to the escalators. He didn’t stop at baggage claim but say, “I just have this bag.” 

The air was crisp outside, the walk was quick with Leonardo’s long strides and Malik’s mindless motion following behind. He stood behind Leonardo at the front desk while he booked a room and then followed him to the elevator. They were alone in the cramped space and Malik was leaning back against the opposite wall from Leonardo, he said, “you remember the first time we had sex?”

“Yes,” Leonardo said. “I remember you clearly weren’t expecting me to be as good as I was. That’s a sad testament to your experiences.”

“You were the third guy I fucked,” Malik said. “Altair has a ten inch dick and we were drunk so you can imagine how unspectacular that was. Alex was a high school jock and we did a lot of frottage and some blow jobs but nothing more than that. Then there was you. You were so good. You’re an out of body experiences. You’re that good.”

Leonardo laughed. “I don’t know that I—” There was no surprise in Leonardo’s body when Malik yanked him forward to kiss him. There was no hesitancy in the way his hands cupped Malik’s face or how his mouth pressed back against his. Leonardo’s body ducked low enough to match his height and it was Leonardo’s elbows, not Malik’s back that hit the wall of the elevator. They were moaning sloppy-stupid-sounds into one another’s mouth with Leonardo’s thigh pushed up between his when the elevator door opened.

The hallway was blessedly empty when they recovered enough to step out into it. Leonardo fumbled through opening the door but then dropped the bag on the floor as soon as they were on the inside. He was undoing Malik’s shirt-buttons while Malik was pulling at his belt. 

“Sorry,” Malik mumbled, “sorry I know this isn’t fair.”

“Shut up,” Leonardo kissed him again, pushed him to the wall and rocked his hips so his dick was pressing up against him. “I hate your undershirts,” he bit into Malik’s mouth as he slid his hands up under his clothes and dragged his nails across his skin. Leonardo was lithe and skinny, deceptively slim because he could wrap his arms around Malik’s body (bigger around by far) and drag him up and carry him like it was nothing. 

They hit the bed with a bounce and Leonardo was laughing at the spill of pillows over the side while Malik was snorting at his stupidity. 

“I didn’t bring lube,” Leonardo said. He looked overwrought with sadness at the thought. Then he kissed Malik again as he shifted his body to the side and opened his belt and pants with one hand. “Luckily, I have many talents.” 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> It was nice of you to tell us you were leaving
> 
> Sorry. Leonardo and Sofia came into town for the weekend
> 
> I’ll be back Monday. Tell Mom?
> 
> Are you going to be okay?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Sorry I forgot your date on Saturday
> 
> It’s fine. We invited one of her friends.
> 
> Have fun, Malik.

“But consider this,” Sofia said. “Next time you decide to meet Ezio, I just happen to be there. And I’ll take care of the dick end while you man the ass end and everyone’s happy.” She was sipping wine coolers, sitting at the end of the bed with pretty pink lust on her cheeks wearing nothing but her bra and her pants. 

The poor attempt they had made at a card game was laying like a spill of cheap cards in the tangled up bedsheets. Leonardo had lost his pants and his shirt and was wearing only his socks and underwear. He was laughing with a beer in one hand as he shook his head. “No,” he said. “His dick is as wonderful as his ass. I want both.”

“You can’t have both,” Sofia said.

Malik was laying on the pile of pillows, lacking his shirts, listening to them bicker about how they would divide up Ezio. “But why is he that attractive to you?”

“His ass,” they said at the same time and then Sofia was standing on the bed shouting at Leonardo with her fingers pointing at him. “You said ass! You said it! You take the ass, I’ll take the front!”

“No!” Leonardo shouted back at her. “I have a monopoly!”

Malik laughed at them and Sofia fell into the space between him and Leonardo. She wiggled around so she was facing him and put her leg across his. Her arm was slung over his bare chest and she smiled at him with her nose close enough to his that he could taste the sweet-scent of her wine cooler. “Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she whispered. “It’s good to see you smile. Can we be friends again? E-books aren’t _real_ books but I’d be willing to read them if you sent them to me.” 

Malik tipped his head so he could kiss her forehead and she made a pleased noise even as Leonardo made an objecting one. “No switching teams!” That led to Sofia tightening her leg around Malik’s body and pulling herself up to straddle his lap. She stuck her tongue out at Leonardo while gave her the finger and Malik laughed at their stupidity (set on high, of course).

But later, when Leonardo was asleep on the floor and Sofia was laying next to him in the semi-dark of the room, she said, “but can we be friends again?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “I’m sorry I was gone so long. I got—caught in something. I don’t think that’s a problem anymore.” He could make out the shape of her when she rolled halfway back to look at him but he couldn’t make out her expression. “Is it your turn or mine for the books?”

“Yours,” she said. “Although I have a stockpile of books I’ve been buying for you to read so maybe I should go first. I’ll send them to you in the mail.” She rolled forward again and yawned. “Good night, Malik.”

“Good night,” Malik mumbled.


	52. Chapter 52

Chapter FIFTY-TWO

> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> What time is it there?
> 
> 4:30 in the morning
> 
> Why are you even awake?
> 
> If I knew that I’d be asleep
> 
> what do you need?
> 
> Before I say this I need you to understand it is absolutely imperative that you don’t tell anyone about it
> 
> This is trust I’m putting in you so don’t let me down
> 
> As long as it is legal, I won’t tell
> 
> I’m late. Really late.
> 
> Condoms really aren’t optional
> 
> I expected you to play dumb.
> 
> Well I expected you to be smarter.
> 
> That was rude. I’m sorry. Have you gone to a doctor?
> 
> No. I just realized that I’m late.
> 
> Desmond’s at work
> 
> I’m just freaking out in the dark because I forgot to turn on a lamp
> 
> I don’t want a kid there’s no reason to think I should have one
> 
> Seems like it would be easier to find out before you freak out
> 
> You can say that because you a zero percent chance of ever getting pregnant
> 
> I’m saying that because I don’t want you sitting in the dark worrying
> 
> Worst case scenario, what do you think would happen if you were pregnant
> 
> Your family would make me marry Desmond and I would hate him the rest of my life
> 
> Lucy
> 
> No. That wouldn’t happen. Desmond isn’t Mama Maria’s child. The rules are different. Even if she tried, it wouldn’t happen
> 
> He would do it if she said he had to
> 
> It wouldn’t happen
> 
> Neither one of us would be good parents.
> 
> If you had to be, you would be.
> 
> I don’t want to have to be.
> 
> This circles our conversation back around to condoms
> 
> But I don’t like them.
> 
> Do you like them more or less than the idea of having babies?
> 
> You won’t let them force him to marry me
> 
> I will not
> 
> I don’t want a baby. I’m so scared.
> 
> Then find out, Lucy. Call a doctor, do the test thing
> 
> I’m calling you when I find out.
> 
> I’ll be here

Altair had mostly given up the pretense of sleeping. While the anonymity of the hotel room provided enough relief from ongoing (varying) levels of Maria’s inconsistent disapproval of him, it had not given him any clear sense of stability. Rather than give him the time and space to think through the problem that seemed too immense to sort out, it provided him with no distractions and an infinite space to dwell. 

He alternated between the bath, his bed and the table that was covered with bits of paper and half-realized drawings of half-realized things. The papers were scattered the way his thoughts were. It seemed imperative that he figure out what to do about Sass (Malik) but he ended up laying on the floor under the table thinking about the time his father had agreed to play in the fort he’d made of the grand dining room table. It was massive in comparison to the one he was laying under. He remembered the rumble father’s voice and the way his body felt solid and permanent when he laid on his chest (they were going into outer space). 

Altair didn’t remember what his Father’s voice _sounded_ like. It hadn’t ever bothered him before. Laying on his back, looking at the underside of the table it seemed as if it were the most important thing in the whole world.

At five in the morning, he was laying on the couch (in a T-shirt and his underwear) looking up Malik Al-Sayf on the internet. He expected to find nothing (really) because his experience with the internet mostly involved (porn) and the saddening realization that everyone cared far too much about celebrities. It was chance (or luck or determination) that he found an article about Malik as the Valedictorian that mentioned his university and scholarship and how he’d overcome living in a single-parent home. Looking up Malik’s name and the university brought him to a website full of sex reviews.

“What the fuck—what?” He should not have scrolled through them. (Except that Malik had spent two and a half years scrolling through everything about Altair’s life that was on the internet. It seemed justified to him.) “...likes to fuck dogs?” Altair mumbled. The reviews were rated on a scale and Malik seemed to be frequently and consistently rated well. The actual reviews largely involved announcing that they had passed ‘the Malik test’. “Bastard just likes me for my body,” he mumbled at the screen before he closed it and set it on the floor next to the couch. 

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Why am I reading Outlander?
> 
> What about this novel makes you think I would like it?
> 
> That one I enjoyed very much. I want your opinion about it.
> 
> My opinion is that Jamie is not a real person
> 
> If he were he would have ascended to sainthood
> 
> Maybe he does
> 
> The physical damage he survives ALONE is unbelievable
> 
> I feel like you’re concentrating on the wrong things
> 
> I’m pretty sure this author has a fetish for hot guys dripping blood
> 
> I’m just going to have to stop talking to you now
> 
> But wait, after being flogged nearly to death, he survives a dozen other injuries and insults and you’d think that would be enough but no! he’s also raped and tortured
> 
> Let this man die
> 
> Are you finished?
> 
> No I still have some of it left
> 
> Jerk

Malik was reading on the couch when his Mother called him. The whole history of his life, Mother had only ever called him in the middle of a work day perhaps three times. And one of those times had been because Kadar had gone off and gotten strep throat and was in bed with a one-hundred-and-four degree fever. (He could not recall the other two times but he knew they were relevant to disasters.) “Mom?” he said when he picked up the phone, “are you okay?”

“I am fine. I need you at work for the day. This is important, please put on nice clothing and be at the door in ten minutes.” Then she hung up on him without further explanation. 

Malik was wearing his pajamas (something that he’d taken to doing since he had no purpose in getting dressed lately). “Crap,” he muttered at the air around him as he got up off the couch and headed up the stairs. Aquila (who had been sleeping on his lap) howled in aggravation that he had been dropped to the ground without warning. Sailor looked up from the window bed that Kadar had gotten for him and dismissed them both as nuisances. 

His closet was separated between clothes for everyday wear (consisting entirely of button down shirts and pants) and ‘nice clothes’ which were the same thing but had been bought new and worn so infrequently they were still new enough to be considered nice. It took him the better part of the ten minutes that he was given to finish getting his clothes on and brush his hair so it looked presentable enough to meet his Mother’s standards. He had only just gotten to the door when she pulled up into the drive and motioned him over. 

“What happened?” Malik asked.

“The young lady that answers our phone quit without notice and there is nobody to answer the phone or greet clients. Nothing is being accomplished and you have spent long enough laying on my couch doing nothing.” She was already backing out of the drive when she made a flat noise in the back of her mouth. “Where is your tie?”

“I didn’t realize I should have one,” Malik said. “I couldn’t have tied it.”

“Well, it will be fine for today.” Then she launched into an explanation of the business, what he was meant to say when he answered the phone and how he was to greet people that came in the door. By the time they arrived at the mortgage office, his head was spinning from an overwhelming amount of details. It wasn’t until he made it through the door and saw the desk she expected him to sit at that he stuttered to a stop.

“How am I supposed to answer the phone _and_ take notes?”

Mother turned around at the edge of the desk she was calling him to. Her expression was slack with disbelief that he had asked such a question before she leaned over, picked up the phone and pressed it between her cheek and shoulder. She scribbled in the air with her left hand and said, “like this.” Then she put the phone back on the cradle. “Do your best. I will be in my office if you have questions.” But before she left she took a minute to show him where the schedule program was on the computer.

To his Mother, _do your best_ meant _identify and fix as many problems as you can independently before asking for help and do not embarrass me or yourself with your behavior_. To Malik it meant _achieve instantaneous perfection_. The dichotomy between the two expectations had only come to light when his Mother had once counselled him about his lack of sleep and poor attitude toward his brother. He was twelve at the time and she had looked as shocked as he felt betrayed to discover that his own interpretation of her motives was wrong. 

Of course, the phone rang before he even finished familiarizing himself with the desk. He tried to grab a pen and the phone at the same time and hung up on whoever it was that tried to call. 

Mother came back out of her office to look at him. “They will call back. Take a breath.” Then she left again.

Right. Take a breath.

\--

> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> It’s been thirty six hours. What happened?
> 
> I haven’t found out yet.
> 
> I meant to go in the morning to get a pee stick but I woke up late. 
> 
> Then work.
> 
> Then it was Desmond’s night off.
> 
> At this point I’m just increasing my chances of getting pregnant since we had sex.
> 
> Wouldn’t it be better to know?
> 
> Probably.
> 
> If you are pregnant, you’ll need all the time to deal with it you can
> 
> I’m still holding out hope that I’m going to start bleeding any day now.
> 
> I will never understand women
> 
> You just broke your hand punching a wall. You don’t get to talk to me about maturity, sir.
> 
> And now I’m running away to live with pirates
> 
> But if there was a chance I could be pregnant, I’d want to know
> 
> It’s better to know, Lucy.
> 
> I’m working on it.
> 
> What pirates are you going to live with?
> 
> Edward

Maria had not insisted but politely asked that they go out and be seen for his last day in England. There had been no protests on her part that he shouldn’t go (as far from her as possible) and no implication that he should have invited her along. 

“I don’t know that I know Edward,” Maria said. She was sitting (looking stunning, of course) on the couch in the outer room of the hotel suite with her back to him. “I know _of_ him but I can’t swear that I’ve ever seen him or even heard what he looks like.” 

“He’s a cleaner looking pirate type,” Altair said. “Blond, tan. Short and thick—like heavy looking but it’s mostly muscle. He’s got a strange nose, kind of flat and not flat. He probably broke it a few times.” 

The couch made a sandpaper noise under her dress as Maria turned around to look at him. The quirk of her lips was amused even if the tone of her words was less so. “How do you describe me? I’m only curious because I have had to describe you many times to a variety of people and I like to think that I’ve always made you should much nicer and better looking than you actually are. You described your cousin like a bulldog.” 

“Nobody asks me to describe you. You’re a woman. You have a hot body, a beautiful face and you’re white with black hair.”

Maria twisted all the way around to watch him sit and pull his shoes on. “And how would you describe your internet friend?”

As a fucking liar masked by the persona of a person that loved him. Altair sat up straight when he finished tying his shoe and slapped both his hands against his knees. Every bit of him wanted to tell Maria to fuck off and leave it alone. Even if she’d been good about things (for a while now) and not poking and prodding at him, it was none of her business what he decided to do with Malik. Yet, the way she was watching him wasn’t hawkish or cruel. There was a genuine curiosity that hinted at something he couldn’t unravel the meaning for. 

“I remember his hair was so dark. I wasn’t all the way drunk when I touched it the first time. But it was like ink it was so dark and thick. He had a young face and brown eyes. With his clothes off he wasn’t that impressive, I mean—apparently he was a seventeen year old debate champion who spent his time helping out his single mom and studying.” And he had been thin under his clothes; thin in the way that Altair had gotten after puberty when his body ate away every ounce of fat he’d ever collected. When he was drunk he rambled in confused sentences, a mix of English-and-Arabic words that ran together to make nonsense. But his smile was all pink and red blush. “I don’t know. He probably doesn’t look like that anymore.”

“I hope you forgive him,” Maria said. There was no indication if she thought that for her own benefit or his. Because she was slipping on her public face in the next second, getting to her feet to smooth down her dress and motion him toward the door. “Now come and adore me for the cameras.”

\--

> FROM: S. Alty [SaltySocks@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Fanfiction Contest [Saltair_Contest@gmail.com]
> 
> Title: A Gentle Fear of Failure  
>  Author: SaltySocks  
>  Rating/Warning: R: crude language, adult situations  
>  Summary: Altair had everything that a man could ever want and many things that no man could have thought of wanting. He’s never had to try to do anything and that must be why he’s so afraid of failing. All he wants now is to prove that he’s a good enough man for Sass.

“Look here’s another one where Altair has to prove how big a man he is,” Kadar said. It was Friday-night and no-homework (for once). Malik was glaring at a stack of papers that Mother had given him to read over for his new job (one that Kadar still wasn’t clear about whether Malik applied for or was given abruptly) while Kadar weeded through the story submissions for ones that could not be posted. He was eating chips (because Mother was visiting a friend) while he skimmed through the story for anything that wasn’t allowed. “Do you think they’d write a different story if they knew how big his dick was?”

Malik did not even look up from the papers. “No. They might write it differently if they knew how big mine was.”

“Oh, you’re crying again, because he’s so worthy of you. That’s sweet.” 

“I realize that you’re helping me,” Malik said. He looked up from the papers long enough to convey the seriousness of what he was about to say. “But I’m paying you so if you could either do the running commentary in your room or not at all, that would be better.”

Kadar licked the salt off his fingers while he pretended to be chastised by the comment. “Still nothing?”

“You stay,” Malik said. He slapped the papers back into their folder and picked it up to press against his chest. “I’ll go to my room.” Then he went like a rampaging child, stomping all the way to his room.

\--

> **Lucy – coffeeshop girl**
> 
> I’ve decided to just go to the doctor.
> 
> Because pee stick tests are so expensive?
> 
> Because I read on the internet that they can be wrong.
> 
> I couldn’t handle a false positive
> 
> If I get a positive result from this test, I want to make sure that the life-ruining rage that follows it means something.
> 
> Well that’s an optimistic way to look at things

Altair landed in Florida and slept until Edward showed up to pick him up and take him back to his sea-soaked exile. He was still groggy enough on the trip between the hotel and the dock that he was spared the usual round of questions. Once aboard the (somewhat confusingly amazing exile-boat) yacht, he was immediately accosted by Haytham. 

He was naked from the waist up with an eyepatch flipped up onto his forehead and some crudely drawn tattoos all over his bony chest. His skin was not (quite) the beaten-leather-tan of his father’s but it was significantly darker than it had been the last time they saw one another. In one hand, he brandished a blunt butter knife and in the other he had a toy hook clenched between two of his fingers. 

“Argh!” the boy shouted at him.

Edward laughed in a distinctly paternal way before he reached over to grab the boy by the head and ruffled up his hair. “You’re no pirate,” he said, “you’re a Disney knockoff.”

Haytham jabbed the knife at his father without making contact with him and wiggled to freedom with a cry of victory. His quick (bare) feet ran across the deck to the closest couch and he stepped from the couch to the table next to it with a crow, “I am a glorious pirate!” he shouted.

“A glorious annoyance!” a girl’s voice shouted from inside. “Dad are you back now? Can I go?” The girl didn’t come out to be seen but shout her plea for freedom from out of sight. 

“Yes, go.” Edward turned back to look at him with a shrug. _Kids,_ he seemed to try to say, _they do what they want_. Then he went over to grab Haytham by the waist on his way inward. “I’ll show you your room. I don’t know how you feel about water so I kept you on the higher deck.” 

“How many kids do you have?” Altair asked. I occurred to him that he hadn’t ever asked (or been told, or even cared) but it seemed relevant if he was going to be staying around them.

“Two at the moment,” Edward said. He dropped Haytham at the top of a set of stairs and the boy took off running at high speed down a narrow hall. It must have led directly to his sister because an exasperated shout followed the immediate stop of the footsteps.

“ _Dad_!”

“You’re here,” Edward said. He motioned toward an already open doorway and the inoffensively neutral room beyond it. “Drop your stuff, hide from the kids, I’m waiting for Mary and Anne to come back and we can go.”

“You’re not a pirate!” the girl shouted. “Why are you so annoying? Why did you ever have any other children?”

Altair tipped his head toward the stomping sound and Edward just smiled. “Excuse me,” he said. 

Left to his own devices, Altair turned around and looked at the bed. It looked promising (and comfortable) but he wasn’t convinced the whole idea of hiding out on Edward’s shame yacht was a very good idea until he laid down. He sank into the comforting heaven of the bed and did not even care when the gremlin stopped in his doorway with his butter knife stuck into the waistband of his pants. 

“I’m recruiting a crew for a mutiny,” Haytham said. “Secret meeting tonight. Don’t,” he pointed a finger at Altair, “tell my dad. We meet at the bar for a couple of pints.” Then he nodded and turned around to trot off.

Altair was not sure if he should laugh at the insanity of it or get up and close the door to block it out. In the end, he settled on staying where he was, snoozing on the bed until someone came to find him.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> What are you feelings on school dress codes?
> 
> Compared to Mom’s dress code they are ridiculously casual
> 
> You should be working, not texting
> 
> You should be learning, not texting.
> 
> Why do you ask?
> 
> because this girl was just lectured in the front of the class about her jeans and her v-neck shirt
> 
> and I’m looking at this guy sitting across from me wearing jeans tight enough I can distinctly make out his testicles
> 
> and his shirt is worn so thin you can see the moles on his back
> 
> Did you say something?
> 
> No.
> 
> Do you think you should have?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Well, fix it.

Jenna Flannery was easy to find in the hallway after first period. She’d been sent to the office and given the gray pants of shame that read: _Dress Code Violation_ down the leg and an obnoxious safety-orange long sleeve shirt. Kadar found her sitting in the back corner of one of the sophomore hall with her legs hugged up against her chest and her chin resting on her knees. She was looking at her phone with the pink-speckled face of someone that was trying really hard not to cry.

“Hey,” Kadar said.

Jenna looked up at him. “I know I look great, right?” She tipped her head back farther and took in the full view of his outfit. Malik hadn’t exaggerated when he said that Mother’s dress code far exceeded the standards of the school. Kadar was wearing slacks (not jeans, like he wanted) and a blue button-down shirt. He had a belt and somewhere in the bottom of his locker he had a sweater that he was meant to use if he got cold. (But no, he wasn’t going to use it. Or get cold as he also had an undershirt.) On important days, like school assemblies and holidays he was obligated to wear a tie. “Or are you like the ones that think I’m a slut?”

“No,” Kadar said. He dropped his bag on the ground and sat next to it. “I just wanted to say I was sorry. I should have said something and I didn’t.”

“What would you have said?” Jenna asked. 

“Stop,” Kadar said. He shrugged. “This guy is circumcised and I know that because you can see his penis through his pants? Nobody is distracted by Jenna’s clavicle but Mrs. Jones we have spent two months peering down your cardigan sweater?” He shrugged as she hiccupped a laugh. “It wasn’t fair. Everyone should have said something and nobody did.”

“Well, lesson learned,” she said. Then she crossed her legs rather than hug them and pulled at the ugly gray sweatpants she was wearing. “Don’t distract the boys. That’s what they said to me. _Have respect for yourself_ and _don’t be a distraction_.” 

“There was no lesson,” Kadar retorted. “There was absolutely no lesson in that. That was public humiliation—and pointless at that. Nobody was telling Mark that he needed to change his pants. What does that even mean, ‘have respect for yourself’?”

Jenna snorted and then motioned at his whole body or the clothes that covered it. 

“But this isn’t what I want to wear.”

“Look,” Jenna said, “it doesn’t matter. Even if it’s not fair, it’s not going to change. So I’ll just wear different pants. It’s not that big a deal.” She looked at her phone again when it vibrated in her hand. “That’s my Mom. Thanks anyway—Kadar? It’s sweet that you even care.”

It wasn’t sweet but he nodded anyway and let her leave. 

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> At some point you were going to tell me that Lucy might be pregnant right?
> 
> When Lucy said I could
> 
> Why did she tell you and not me?
> 
> I am the wrong person to ask
> 
> How is she?
> 
> Scared shitless I guess.
> 
> Thanks for talking her.
> 
> No problem. Remember to let me know the results
> 
> Of course we will.

Altair was up on the highest deck of the yacht, laying in the long reclining chairs watching the stars winking to light. Down below him the general noise of life was grounding to a dim halt. Haytham’s exciting shouting had stuttered to a halt, the girl’s continuous objections to her brother’s existence had stopped. There was still music and indistinct noise but it was far enough away that he couldn’t have made it out even if he were trying.

Up here, with his sweating drink abandoned on a table and his body lax with the gentle rock of the ship on the water, it felt as if nothing in the whole of the universe could touch him. 

His thoughts were indistinct little bubbles of things. Each of the rising to the top of his mind (in between new stars drawing his attention) popping with an explosion of light-and-sound inside of his skull. 

At first he tried to think of what it would be like if Desmond would have a child—tried to imagine how badly it would go for him, how scared of the kid Desmond would be. Altair put predictions like bets on how long Lucy-and-Desmond could survive with a kid. 

But he was thinking about how Sass-had-been-a-woman and Altair had spent his in-between times creating a life with a faceless person. He’d built a house of things inside of his head where he kept daydreams of the future like secrets that he only barely told himself. It wasn’t that Malik-was-a-man but that Sass-hadn’t-been. It was that Sass was a figure in his head and not a reality in life. The whole world that Altair had built for them was a burned out husk of things. 

The bubbles came, drifting their way up: all the things that he could-and-couldn’t have. 

(Like children.

Or a wife.

Or any of the things he’d thought he would.)

He rubbed his hand across the dampness on his cheek and rolled his eyes at the whole useless mess of it. It was a purposeful, (painful), particularly dramatic moment when he let out his breath and laid all his dreams of Sass to rest. That was dead now. Mourned and buried. Remembered but lost.

\--

> FROM: Fances McFanon [Fanon4life@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Fanfiction Contest [Saltair_Contest@gmail.com]
> 
> Title: love is all we need  
>  Author: Fances McFanon  
>  Rating/Warning: R: Adult situations, Adult language, mild sexual content  
>  Summary: There were several reasons that Sass had refuted Altair’s attempts to meet her, for one, he was an arrogant jerk, two, he was as mature as a child, and three, Sass was trans 
> 
> Author’s note: I had my English professor read through this so it should meet with the minimum standards. Thanks for this contest!

When Malik wrote up the very specific guidelines for the fanfiction contest (especially the part about how everything had to be edited and free of spelling or grammatical errors) his _hope_ had been that it would limit the number of submissions. He certainly had not expected (and was still having trouble working through the fact that) professors the world over were editing semi-pornographic fanfiction written about real people. 

On the one hand he was surprised (and pleased) by people’s dedication and on the other hand there were college professors out there reading a hundred and six different fake versions of him gently crying over how Altair really loved him. (And wasn’t that just _hilarious_ considering the actual Altair had dropped off the face of the planet to ‘work through some things’ and that seemed like exactly the kind of thing that meant ‘never going to talk to you again’.)

Malik sorted the submissions into ones that could be posted (the ones formatted correctly) and the ones he sent back with the form letter explaining they didn’t format and/or needed to edit the whole damn thing again. Then he closed his laptop and picked up the next book off the stack of novels that Sofia (had been hording for years, apparently) and stood in the space between his bed and the door while he worked out if he wanted to go downstairs and read on the couch while Mother read in her chair or if he wanted to lay on his bed.

Normally, he read downstairs. 

Normally, he didn’t get forced into accepting a job he wasn’t qualified for or interested in.

Normally, when he was upset with his Mother he could talk to her about it.

(Normally, he wasn’t hovering between mourning a relationship that only half existed and furious anger at being sorta-dumped when he’d been so adamantly opposed to dating in the first place.)

In the end, he chose his bed.

\--

> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> Desmond is just being very supportive.
> 
> Too supportive.
> 
> If he doesn’t stop telling me how he’s willing to do whatever is best for me I’m going to force him to marry me regardless of whether or not I’m pregnant.
> 
> Lucy that’s not the right reaction
> 
> He thinks I’m going to leave him.
> 
> To be fair, he’s making it easy for you to leave him
> 
> He doesn’t want you to.
> 
> Well, we find out tomorrow.
> 
> If I am pregnant I expect you to come back from playing pirates to help with Desmond
> 
> yes ma’am

Altair left his room (cabin? Whatever one called a room on a ship) and went out toward the smell of the ocean. There were voices out on the deck. He was expecting to find one (or maybe two) of the very loud children but rather than finding any he found the two women Edward introduced as ‘Anne Bonny’ and ‘Mary Read’ without offering any indication which was which.

They were both smiling when he stepped out into the sunlight. The dark haired one was glancing up and down his body as if assessing him for a potential fight while the redhead was looking mostly at his face. There was an awkward amount of time when neither of them said anything. Before the dark haired one said, “good morning.”

“Afternoon,” the redhead corrected.

“Good afternoon.”

“Hi,” he offered. While it was terrible manners to stare at women (ask anyone) he glanced back and forth between them (with their obvious smiles and their sun-darkened skin) trying to work out if one of them looked more like a Mary than the other and if one were clearly an Anne. In the end, he just rubbed his hand through his hair. “Where’s Edward?”

“He went swimming.”

“We’re in the ocean,” Altair said.

“Where there’s water,” the redhead said. The other woman looked over her shoulder and craned her neck. She added, “there’s not likely to be sharks in the water right now. But I haven’t heard Haytham in a while.”

“What’s the other one’s name?” Altair asked. “The girl?”

“Jennifer,” the dark haired woman said. “I’m Mary.”

This prompted the redhead (Anne) to reach across the table they were sitting at and slap her on the arm. “We said we wouldn’t tell him.” 

Mary shrugged. “Come on,” she said as she got up. “I’ll show you where we keep the food.” Anne stuck her tongue out when Mary got up and Mary gave her the finger as she walked away with him. “How old are you?” she asked. Her hand reached up to squeeze his upper arm and her face displayed a minimal bit of impressed quality. 

“Twenty two,” he said. 

“You’re a baby,” she said. But not in the way that the others did. Still the fact that he hated being called that must have been evident in his face because she said, “I’m sorry. I meant you are very young. I didn’t expect you to be so young. The last cousin that visited was Federico and he’s—thirty?”

“Federico was here?”

“Yes. He had a lot of fun causing trouble. Haytham very much enjoyed having him around as Federico taught him pub songs that pirates sang and chased him through the ship screaming the whole way. It amused Edward anyway.” Then she came to a stop at the kitchen area and motioned at the cupboards with the sliding doors that held all of their food. “Everything in these are for everyone. Don’t eat anything out of the cupboards with the names on them. Someone will track you down.”

“Thanks,” he said. 

“No problem,” Mary said. Then she squeezed his bicep one more time and left to report her findings to Anne (presumably). 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Do me a favor and answer the phone like you’re my Dad
> 
> Our father is dead
> 
> Do a falsetto and pretend you’re Mom
> 
> No
> 
> Then convince Mother not to kill me
> 
> …What have you done?
> 
> Well they are calling Mom’s office so you’re about to find out

The single truth of Kadar’s entire life was that his Mother simply did not get angry. He could remember the first time he’d slept over at a friend’s house and witnessed the horrifying (nauseating, discomforting, unwelcomed) show of parental anger. The kid’s name had been Seth and his mother had shouted and screamed at him over a fallen over fort and a broken glass. Kadar was eight-or-nine and far too old to need to call his Mommy about anything so he’d held out until almost bedtime before he broke down crying about how he needed to go home.

The story circulated school that he was afraid of sleeping at other people’s houses (and needed his own blankey or special stuffed teddy) and while he didn’t have a comfort item the notion that he never wanted to witness such explosive anger ever again was true enough. (That was long before he knew that Mothers hit their kids and called it discipline.) 

There she was with her face changing colors from tanned to red and then blanching out pale as she very stiffly walked from the car to the house. Anger made her brittle and the energy that came away from her was nothing but pointed and _hurtful_. Kadar wanted to lay his case out for her to understand but she wouldn’t even _look_ at him. 

“Mom,” he said.

“I need you to go put on clothes,” she said. “Clothes from your closet. While you are gone, take the time to be very sure of what you want to say to me. I will call you when I can listen.” Every word sounded as if it were a neatly contained scream (like Seth’s Mother) ground out from between her teeth. She straightened her shoulders and looked him straight in the face so that he could see the odd mix of anger-and-hurt-and-second-hand humiliation that was caught there. 

“Yes Mother,” he said. Then he headed up to his room. His inclination was to slam the door but he found himself trying to match his Mother’s calm fury so he didn’t. Instead he sat on his bed with a pillow crushed against his face shouting angry expletives into it until his face was hot and his lungs were starved for air. When he finished, he chucked the pillow back with the others and stood up to pull the shirt (that was so tight it was very nearly sheer) shirt off over his head and threw it in the laundry basket. The pants that he’d borrowed from (boy) Quinn he dropped on the end of the bed. The endless length of holes were ragged strings made even more ragged by the fact that his legs were significantly thicker than Quinn’s (and/or the pants were meant to cut off circulations to one’s toes). Then he sighed at his closet.

Sometimes, he thought, that if Malik had only cared enough to fight Mother about their wardrobe options he wouldn’t be stuck wearing single-color button downs and nice slacks. Kadar (on his own) did not possess enough rebellion (or conviction, apparently) to impress Mother. But it seemed that if Malik had only written an essay on the importance of freedom of expression, they could own (and wear) T-shirts.

It was a half an hour before Mother called him downstairs again. He found her in the kitchen (the way he’d often found her in the kitchen sitting opposite Malik). She motioned at the chair opposite him and said, “explain please.”

“The dress code at my school is specifically engineered to put unrealistic and unfair restrictions on women that don’t exist for the men. Coupled with the fact that the majority of clothing that is marketed to high school aged women and girls is snug or potentially revealing, it creates an impossible atmosphere. More importantly, when a woman—or girl—is in violation of the dress code she is publicly humiliated in front of a classroom of her peers, sent to the office, forced to wear clothes designed to shame her, and told that she should have ‘self respect’ and ‘stop distracting the boys’. It’s a disgrace that these girls and women are being treated this way. The burden of not being distracted should be on the boys and men, not on the girls. It’s a disgrace what the school has done. Someone needs to finally point it out.”

Mother took a moment to think about what he said. Then she said, “find a way to stage your protest that keeps you in school. I admire that you want to make a positive change but your methods today were not successful. I have to go back to work now. When I get home, I expect that you will have put time into thinking of a better method of protest.”

Kadar nodded. “Have a good day at work, Mother.”

“Also I expect dinner will be ready.”

Of course she did. Kadar nodded again. “Yes Mother.”

She stopped on her way past him to kiss his forehead and ruffle her hand through his hair. “Your heart is so big. How did I have two sons and one has only brains and one has only heart?”

Kadar tipped his head up. “We’ll even it up eventually,” he said. And she smiled and nodded. “I think Malik’s found his heart.”

Mother rolled her eyes as she went toward the door. If it weren’t so disastrous, her blatant dislike of Altair would be funnier. 

\--

son-of-no-one: @im-not-drunk has just been crowned a pirate princess by the king of the pirates. #justkenwaythings (20m ago)

Haytham did not fall asleep but stop moving long enough to rest his face on the carpet and crash into a death-like-sleep. Edward was still wearing the crown that he’d been given as he tipped his head to look at his son quietly snoring with his face pressed against his hand and his knees bent so his butt was in the air. It was an inelegant (uncomfortable) way to lay but the kid seemed to line it fine.

Jennifer (who did not talk around Altair) looked at her brother with a sigh. Like she was all at once so sick of him and so endeared to him that it was overwhelming. Then she turned her head to stage whisper at her dad, “I’ll go fix his bed.”

Edward nodded. “I’ll bring him down soon.” Rather than move the boy to somewhere more comfortable, Edward reached across the couch he was sitting on to pick up a throw blanket and tossed it over the boy. “Kids,” he said. “I couldn’t get off the floor if I slept like that.”

“You could,” Anne said from behind the bar. She was standing on one side while Mary sat on the other. They were playing cards or mixing drinks (or really anything, they were quiet most of the time). “We know it for a fact.”

“That was different, and I was younger,” Edward said. Then he pointed at Altair, “don’t let lesbians trick you into things. They are very tricky. Like sirens.”

“I’m bisexual,” Mary said. She turned on the stool she was sitting on long enough to make a motion at Edward to indicate that he should know that for a fact. Anne laughed at the exchange between them but didn’t add anything to the conversation. 

When he finished waving his hands at Mary, Edward turned back to look at Altair. His face was ruddy red beneath the tan and his smile was wide enough it seemed to crack his cheeks. He said, “I heard you’re bisexual now. Actually, I heard you were gay but I assumed that what they meant to say was bisexual. Unless you’re very dedicated to keeping up a charade.”

“Who told you?”

“Who didn’t?” Edward retorted. “You can’t tell the Auditore family anything. They have to share, all of them. They conspire in their war room, like spiders. You and me? Desmond? We’re just little flies that got caught.”

Altair snorted at that. “I own most of that web,” he said.

Edward laughed so loud that Haytham jerked and mumbled a sleepy reproach from his spot on the floor. He flattened out and tugged the blanket up to cover his head as if it would block out the noise. “In any case, congratulations.”

“On being bisexual?” Altair asked.

“On personal growth,” Edward corrected. Then he leaned forward and shuffled forward on his feet to pick up Haytham off the ground. It was a semi-delicate procedure that seemed to involve predominantly keeping the kid’s face covered as he was hoisted up. “I’ll be back.”

Altair nodded. He was half-sure he was going to just sit and wait for Edward to come back but in five minutes he was wandering up to the top deck to his new favorite chair to watch the stars peek out of the endless black of the darkening sky. He must have fallen asleep there because he woke up covered in a blanket with the taste of the ocean air stuck in his mouth. That wasn’t so bad either. 

\--

> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> I’m not pregnant.
> 
> Congrats
> 
> Thank you.
> 
> Is there anything wrong?
> 
> Probably not. But if this nothing continues I’m supposed to go to an obgyn.
> 
> Good. I just needed to know before I said this next thing
> 
> Learn your lesson here. Come on me, not in me.
> 
> …which one of your stupid cousins taught you that?
> 
> None of them. This one girl said it to me. A few asked me to come on them
> 
> Well its great advice but you try talking Desmond into doing it.
> 
> I would have thought he would follow orders well
> 
> Yeah but he’s a prude. 
> 
> Thanks, by the way.
> 
> No problem.

Altair found Edward at the bar section but there was no sign of children or women anywhere. (Not that it was much of a loss.) He shuffled over and sat on the bar stool opposite Edward and said, “give me your cheapest shot.”

Edward glanced up at him from where he bent forward writing something on a sheet of white paper. “Slut?”

“Cheap and unimaginative.” Altair scratched the stubble on his face and yawned. It was practically inconceivable that he was as tired as he was considering the majority of the time he’d spent on this boat involved sleeping or laying in the sun. Yet, he could probably have gone straightaway to napping. “What are you doing?”

“Haytham wants a pirate map,” he said. He picked up several sheets of paper with half-drawn maps on them. There were two that read ‘Master Kenway’s Secret Map’ in precise, beautiful calligraphy over top the half-finished map of a desert island. The little landmarks drawn onto the map were just as impressive but despite this each of the papers had been dropped to the side. “Did you write that?” Altair asked.

“Uh, yeah.” Edward reached across the interior of the bar to touch the wooden box like that explained the whole concept of how he knew calligraphy that well. “You used to draw when you were a kid. I need a map. I can’t draw.”

Clearly Edward was also blind. Altair said, “I don’t draw like this,” he turned the paper around to display the ornate details of the half-completed map (like the cluster of palm trees with the delicate leaves swaying gently in a breeze, or the overly detailed pirate chest with the necklaces dangling out of it). “I still draw like a kid.”

“Sounds good.” Edward picked up a fresh sheet of paper and slapped it on the counter in front of Altair before he held out a pencil for him to take. The led was stubby and the eraser was mostly worn off. “It’s about time you’ve earned your keep.” Then he pulled a stool out from under the bar on his side and sat on it. 

“Ass,” Altair said.

Edward grinned at him as he piled up all the rejected papers and clipped them together with a big black clip. Then he watched Altair with far too much interest before motioning at his bare left arm. “What’s that one say?”

“Nothing is true,” Altair said. There was no immediate question to follow up on why it said what it did but the expectation lingered nonetheless. He was sketching an uneven outline of a deserted island while Edward pulled his wooden box over to open it. The latch was metal and it grated open like it was worn-out from use. Altair looked at him and caught the top of Edward’s sun-bleached head as he inspected his pens. “I thought I knew something about someone and I didn’t.”

Edward looked up. “Why did you think that you knew?”

“I thought they told me.”

Edward pressed his lips together. His hands were rough and massive holding a delicate silver calligraphy pen. “It happens,” Edward said. “A year ago you thought you knew who you were, but the man you were then wouldn’t recognize the one you are now. Six months ago, you must have thought you knew everything important you needed in your life. Yesterday you thought you knew what you didn’t know. Tomorrow you’ll find out something else _wasn’t true_.”

“You sound like Maria,” Altair mumbled. “She thinks I should forgive him.”

“You were raised by Phyllis.” Edward laughed at that. “My Mother wasn’t interested in me, much. I spent a lot of years with Calvin in his dog house. I saw what your Grandmother did. I asked him once, when I was older and he was much thinner, why he let her do it. Calvin said, _I married her for the money, I fucked around on her dime, it seems fair that I die on it._ ”

Altair stopped sketching the island to look at Edward. “I don’t want anyone to die. I just want—Sometimes I think that I’m not angry anymore. The lie was my fault as much as it was his. I… I think, I can accept why you did this. I can accept why it was necessary. Then I can’t. Then I’m _angry_. Maybe it was necessary before but the things that I’ve—” 

“Be angry, Altair. Do not be Phyllis.”

“You don’t know what I did to him.”

Edward shrugged it off. “The mistake that Calvin made, the one you’re making is that you can make it fair if you keep trying. Whatever you did isn’t in competition to whatever he did. You’re allowed to be hurt and angry. Then you have to figure out what it’s worth on its own. Can you forgive this—lie?”

“I reread these e-mails,” Altair said. (But why, why was he saying it? Why was it falling out of his mouth when he’d kept it stuck in his head and chest for weeks.) “I thought if I did I could find where the lies were. I thought that I could pick it apart and find all the times that he must have laughed at me.”

“Did you?”

No. He had found a lot of things in those e-mails but he hadn’t found the lies he was expecting. There was anger and there was pain. There was hurt and there was fear in equal measure. There was hesitation. Then there was (very, gradually, almost so minimally it could hardly be noticed) he’d found the point at which Malik must have fallen in love with him. That point when the fear of being discovered had been outweighed by the need to share himself with Altair. “I found that, he’s the person I fell in love with. But he’s not the person that I thought he was.”

“What did you think he was?” 

“A woman,” Altair said. He cracked a smile because Edward looked as if he were trying very hard not to laugh. “I can’t be—with him _now_. Even if I weren’t angry. I can’t. I don’t even know—anything about myself anymore.” Then he looked at the map he was sketching and sighed. “I don’t think I did better than you.”

“Keep going, it looks good,” Edward assured him. “Just make some trees and hills and an X where the treasure is.” 

Altair made a noncommittal sound in his throat. “So are you having sex with the lesbians?”

Edward did laugh then. And his face was so pretty (not even a little) with a pink blush. His tongue was at the edge of his mouth when he nodded. “Yes. Sometimes. When they feel like sharing.”

\--

MariaThorpe: @Sass-Badger, today I was asked if I was jealous of the relationship that you have with @son-of-no-one. Apparently the fact that you speak to him is threatening to me. (14m ago)

Sass-Badger: @MariaThorpe, I have gotten accused of trying to steal him from you. I am not sure why. (10m ago)

MariaThorpe: @Sass-Badger, I have decided the simplest way to dispel these rumors of rivalry is to become friends. Then the general public will have to acknowledge we are friends or accuse us of polyamory. (4m ago)

Sass-Badger: @MariaThorpe, I would very much appreciate making friends with you but first you must read the entire Twilight series. Otherwise we will have nothing to talk about (2m ago)

MariaThorpe: @Sass-Badger: I will get straight to it then. (1m ago)

Malik had not gotten to see the outfit that Kadar wore that enraged Mother to so much. He arrived to the protest already in progress and did nothing (much) except call Leonardo so he could design a shirt that said ‘dress code violation’.

The shirt consisted of the words across the back of the T-shirt with a large biohazard symbol beneath it with a girl standing inside of wearing jeans and a T-shirt. There were a variety of design options to choose from, including one that was a hand-written list of ‘things I learned at school today’ that listed

1\. How to find the diameter of a circle  
2\. What the raft in Huckleberry Finn represented  
3\. The history of the French-and-Indian war.  
4\. How to _respect myself_  
And beneath that was a girl with her head ducked in shame wearing the gray sweat pants of shame. 

Kadar wore a different one to school every day for a week and was sent home twice. The second time he was sent home he was crowing with victory at the dinner table, talking about how he had set up a small website to explain his mission and how other people had agreed to start wearing the shirt. He was chattering on-and-on about how he was going to change the school for the better. 

“You should call the news,” Malik said. “Or start a petition to get the dress code changed. Put together an actual proposal for change and take it to the school board. If you drum up enough support for your cause, they will have to at least take it into consideration. Without a purpose to your protest you’re just making noise.”

Kadar nodded. “I need a purpose. I’ll call a meeting. Mom can I have a meeting in the living room?”

Mother smiled fondly at Kadar even if she seemed exasperated by his sudden interest in activism. Her eyes slid over to glance at him as if to say _look at what you’ve done_. Malik shrugged and they both worked on eating while Kadar tried to figure out what he wanted his petition for change to involve.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I thought you’d like this view. I miss you.

The picture that Altair sent him was of the sunrise over an endless horizon. It was beautiful in a way that seemed ethereal and unreal. Malik stared at it for a while when he should have been reading (or sleeping) and weighed it against the words that accompanied it. The part of him that hadn’t been battered by the not-knowing how Altair’s temper tantrum would end was pleased by the display of affection.

The part of him that was sore still was sour at the sight of it. 

There was no part (however) that wasn’t thankful to see it. He thought if he put his fingers against the keyboard that he’d pour out the whole miserable story with a great wealth of apologies for what he’d done and so he saved the picture to his files and closed the computer. He sat in the dark of his bedroom, leaning back in his chair, unsure of the way he was smiling. 

“I miss you too,” he mumbled into the dark.


	53. Chapter 53

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> That is a truly beautiful view. I miss you too. How are you doing sorting out what was causing you trouble earlier?

It had never occurred to Malik (either way) that there were people left in the world that did not know he was gay. It seemed to him that everyone of any sort of significance was aware of it and that every guy with similar interests could pick him out of a crowd. The fact that there were people left in the world that were unaware of his preference for dick seemed entirely irrelevant.

Then it was Donna (one of the ladies in his Mother’s office) who found him in the break room sneaking a cup of coffee with five sugars and three creams (so that it barely tasted like coffee) before his Mother got back from her meeting. The fact that he was twenty years old and an adult should have mattered more than the idea that his Mother would find his developing addiction to caffeine objectionable, yet he was definitely sneaking behind her back. 

Donna came in and set down her own paper cup on the counter next to him. Malik didn’t startle (exactly) but he hadn’t been expecting to be found. His smile was entirely reflexive and Donna’s was entirely secretive. “You know your Mother never touches the stuff.”

“I didn’t discover it until college,” Malik said. He stepped away from the long counter where the coffee was set up and let Donna reach the machine. His intention had been to stand in the empty room and suck down the coffee as fast as the heat of it would allow because he could not take it back to his desk and he couldn’t be away from the desk for very long.

“How is school going? Your Mother said that you took this semester off to finish healing. Are you going to go back in the spring?”

“I’m still looking into my options,” he said. The coffee was not cool enough to gulp it and so he had to stand there with an awkward polite smile on his face while he tried to will it into cooling off. 

Donna turned so her hip was against the counter and said, “your Mother is so proud of you. She always talks about how wonderful and responsible you are. It was hard for her when you had your accident but I know she’s glad to have you back.” And some long-pause while Donna (one of the older ladies in the office) smiled at him indulgently. It was the smile of another-grown-up that had followed him around since childhood. The presumption that because they heard about Malik from his Mother that they knew him. 

“I know it was hard for her when I was so far away,” he agreed. The gulp of coffee that he managed was too hot on his tongue but not quite hot enough to burn. It slid down his throat as a persistent, noticeable warmth that spread in his stomach. 

“Well, it’s hard for Mothers to remember their children are adults. We want to keep you young forever.” That seemed to segue (in Donna’s mind to) “Are you dating anyone? I would set you up with my daughter if I could just get her to let go of this boy she’s dating now. He’s no good for her. He has no future, you know? And he doesn’t care.”

“Oh,” Malik said. The nature of the awkward uncertainty in his voice wasn’t rooted in how to politely turn down this unwanted offer (or perhaps to tell Donna how her daughter probably didn’t want her mother setting her up with strangers) but in how to do it without blurting out he was gay. It was a matter of six seconds (maybe) and it was enough time to realize Mother had never told anyone he was gay, to wonder why she hadn’t, and to decide that if she had not brought it up that he shouldn’t either. So he said, “I’m just taking time away from dating. I’m trying to concentrate on my recovery.” (With occasional interrupts for poorly-advised sex with guys who liked fucking him.)

“Of course,” Donna nodded. “That’s for the best. You’re so young there’s no rush. Take the time to make sure you’re fully recovered.” Then her coffee was finished and she smiled at him again before she left the room. 

Malik frowned at his own cup, considered dumping it in the sink and decide to upturn the cup and gulp the rest before he ran back to his desk. He only just made it before his Mother walked in from her meeting. She paused in front of his desk with her eyebrows knitted in confusion. “I was getting a drink,” he said.

“Coffee?” Mother asked. The quirk of her lips was not disapproving but amused (which surprised him) before she patted him on the left shoulder and went to her office. 

\--

MariaThorpe: as requested, I have read all of the Twilight novels. I believe I can now join the friendship club. @Sass-badger (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: indeed you can, @MariaThorpe (1h ago)

Notyourbrother: if you haven’t read these books but you’re a blood relative can you still join? (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: @notyourbrother, I’m sorry the membership policy is very strict. (1h ago)

Son-of-No-One: as one of the founding members of the #twilightfriendshipclub, I feel that @notyourbrother should be an honorary member (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: that’s because you’ve never had to live with @notyourbrother (1h ago)

MariaThorpe: I do not have siblings. I hear that they are charming. I agree we should let @notyourbrother in the #twilightfriendshipclub. (1h ago)

Notyourbrother: ha! You’ve been outvoted @sass-badger. (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: this does not surprise me in the least @notyourbrother. (55m ago)

“Mom didn’t tell anyone I was gay,” Malik announced (randomly, out of nowhere) in between Kadar slapping down the folder from the school board detailing what he needed to do if he wanted to propose a change and picking up the binder with all of his notes in it. The dining room table had become the center of his protest and was thus covered in piles of shirts, assignments and research notes. There were several half-finished posters to one side that Jenna and Ebony had started working on last time they came over but hadn’t finished. 

“Who did you want her to tell?” Kadar asked.

“Don’t parents usually talk about their kids?” Malik was taking up one small corner of the dining room table, finishing up whatever Sass-related nonsense he was doing for the night before he helped Kadar sort out the mess on the table (Mother told them it had to be done). 

Kadar slapped the binder down and the noise startled Malik away from staring at the screen. “What was she supposed to say, Malik? I’m so proud of my slut son sleeping his way through college? Did you know that my son has had sex with so many people he’s the top reviewed guy at his college? Oh, Susie did I tell you that my child is in a love triangle with a genius artist and a rich genius womanizer who thinks he’s a woman. I am _so proud_ my son only lets the smartest guys fuck him.”

If they had been children, Malik would have started lecturing him in Arabic, Kadar would have shouted back at him in English and the fight would have escalated until they were calling one another names. But, now, Malik rocked up an eyebrow at the words. “You’re right,” he said, “let’s concentrate on you right now.” Then he shut his laptop and slid it into the chair as he got to his feet. “What can I do?”

“I didn’t—” Kadar started. “Mom wouldn’t talk about your sex life even if you were straight, Malik. If you started dating someone, she might mention it. If you think it’s anything but that, just ask her.” Then he motioned at the disaster. “I need to divide this into teams. I’ve got the marketing team that’s trying to recruit new people, then there’s the research team that’s trying to build a case for changing the school policy, and then there’s I don’t know. It’s a mess. I’d call Jenna but she hasn’t started her science project yet and it’s due next week.” 

“Next time your group meets, make sure they label their work,” Malik suggested. “So all the marketing stuff on this side. Everything else—for now, on this side.” Then he looked at Kadar for approval and after getting a nod began looking through the mess and sorting it out.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> Would you be willing to do another Fun Fact Friday on the 7th of November?

When Haytham had said there were plans for a mutiny, Altair had assumed it was part of the game of pirates that only the boy ever seemed to play. There was no way that he could have known it would escalate into anything else. 

“Hey,” Edward said (after dark, after the kids were sleeping), “there’s a mutiny tomorrow. We need to make you look like a pirate. Come on.” He motioned Altair out of his room and out to the bar where the two women were standing wearing nothing but their underclothes arguing about who was going to wear the pants that Mary was holding. “Sit,” Edward said. “Take your shirt off.” There was a wide array of markers sitting on the top of the bar.

“What’s a mutiny?” Altair asked. He tugged his shirt off over his head and dropped it in his lap. He sat on the stool facing the bar watching as Mary won the fight and slid into the pants. Anne was glaring at her as she tugged a skirt up her pretty legs. 

“Haytham is going to try to take control of the ship from Edward,” Mary said. “It’s our mission to help him.” She stopped in the middle of shaking out a possible shirt to come stand behind him with Edward and the two of them were assessing his back with far too much interest. “How about the treasure map? Haytham likes that. It’ll be easier to do on him than it is to do it on Haytham.”

“True,” Edward said. “I’m going to draw this map on your back. Pirates have tattoos.”

“This is a—game?”

“Yes. I assume it’s not unlike the birthday you had with the half scale pirate ships in the back yard.” Edward picked up one of the slim markers first. “All of you against me.”

“Jennifer is going to switch sides,” Anne said. “She always does. It’s because Edward usually wins.”

“Ha!” Mary turned suddenly to point at Edward. “But you don’t have Adewale this time!” She came back around the front of the bar. Anne was halfway dressed by the time Mary finished sorting out the voluminous shirt. “We go to pirate festivals,” she said, “that’s how we met. Aside from drunk and disorderly, Edward wasn’t a very convincing pirate.” Then she pulled her shirt on while Anne was busy sorting out how she wanted to wear her own shirt, if she wanted to leave it loose or pull the strings tight. 

“You should have a tattoo on your back,” Edward said. “You have a nice back.” That was an odd compliment from his full-grown cousin who was doodling a treasure map on him to say. 

“I don’t want a tattoo on my back.” Altair turned his head to look at Edward and the only part he could see was the dusty blond hair at the top of his head and the curve of his back bent over to draw the thin wet lines on his skin. “I want to be able to see them. What good is a tattoo I can’t see?”

“Well, you’re gay now. It’d give the guys something nice to look at.” ( _while they fuck you_ was left implied but unsaid.) Edward was so serious when he said it that Anne’s bubble of laughter and Mary’s outraged face were over the top in comparison. “I mean,” Edward added from somewhere behind his right ear. His face might have been a pinch of worry he’d said something offensive. “If you—just—you have good shoulders for a tattoo.” Then louder he said, “shut up you too.”

“Is that why you got yours?” Anne asked. “To give the boys something nice to look at?”

“I’ve got a tattoo they can look at.” Altair said it to interrupt the conversation (or just redirect it, to try to divert any more talk about why someone might be looking at his back, really). And both of the girls were looking at the few sparse tattoos he did have.

It was Mary that said, “where?”

The cock tattoo was so low on his hip that he had to unbutton his pants to push them down far enough to show it to them. It wasn’t that big (a few inches at most) but very bold and black. Anne rolled her eyes but Mary laughed. Edward leaned forward to look at it.

“Seems redundant,” Edward said. His smile was very pleased with itself before he stepped back and let Altair fix his pants before they resumed the application of his giant fake tattoo. They explained the nature of the mutiny to him and sent him to bed with a pair of white pants and a red sash that he was meant to tie around his waist. 

“The mutiny starts at dawn,” Mary said. (But it did not actually start until after nine when Haytham woke everyone up to try to take control of the ship. The day was a blur of skirmishes and murdered friends but it ended with Edward walking the plank while Haytham crowed his victory over the bodies of the fallen.)

\--

> ### October 26, 2008: A Post on Sunday
> 
> This post serves as the first, only and _final_ reminder that all submission for the fanfiction contest are due this **Saturday, November 1, 2008**. They will then be posted for the public vote on **November 3, 2008**. That vote will close **November 17, 2008** and the final winners as chosen by  Son-of-No-One, MariaThrope and I will be announced **November 24, 2008**. 
> 
> We will also be hosting another Fun Fact Friday November 7, 2008. If you have questions please submit them here.

Malik didn’t necessarily expect that his Sunday would be absent the sudden wealth of teenagers that had infested his house but he was still surprised to find them there at nine in the morning. It seemed like more of them would be obligated to attend church. He wasn’t even fully dressed when he came down the stairs to find a bevy of teenage women in various states of angry and endeared to his brother. Kadar was sitting on the floor (with Sailor laying in his lap like a lazy dignitary) because he’d given all the seats to the girls (of course he had) and they were all talking at once so that no voice was distinguishable.

Breakfast was close enough Malik nearly convinced himself to just go on his way to food but his sorry state of half-dressed forced him back up the stairs to get presentable clothing on. By the time he made it down stairs again, one of the girls (Jenna?) was standing up explaining why they should also get the ugly gray sweatpants to add to their protest shirts. 

Malik left them to it and went to the kitchen. He made his breakfast and thought about eating it outside. It hadn’t snowed yet but the air was a crisp kind of cold that was unpleasant to be in for very long. So he sat at the table by himself, listening to the vague sound of debate in the other room. Mother came in front the backyard after a minute and smiled when she saw him there. “That’s a crowd,” he said.

“It is,” Mother agreed. “They seem like dedicated young ladies. If you brother had to align himself with someone, I think he could have done worse.” She sat opposite him at the little table and rubbed her cold-pinked hands together.

“Mom,” Malik said (because it was in his head, almost all the time since Donna opened her mouth), “why didn’t you tell anyone I was gay?”

Mother was unimpressed by his question. “Why didn’t I tell them that you prefer mustard? Or that you do not enjoy pickles? Why didn’t I tell them that you put sugar on your popcorn?”

“That’s different,” Malik said.

“How is it different?” Mother asked. “I did not tell them that I was straight or that Kadar was. They made assumptions based on their own views of the world. If one of them had asked me what your sexual orientation was, I would have told them. Since nobody did, I didn’t think it was relevant to mention. Does it bother you that I didn’t?”

That wasn’t exactly the problem. “No?” But it wasn’t exactly not the problem either. “I— Do you care if they know?” 

Mother made a soft noise like _ah_ under her breath. “The choice about who you tell and why you tell will always be yours. My opinion of you will never be dependent on who you chose to sleep with.”

“Unless it’s Altair,” Malik said. It was a childish dig but the way her lips went from a soft smile to a severe frown was almost _funny_. The change was so automatic that it was impossible for her to prevent it. He laughed at her disapproval (and didn’t even feel bad about it). “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“How is he?” Mother didn’t look like she cared at all.

Malik shrugged. “He was angry about something a while ago—when Leonardo came,” but judging by her face she was aware that Leonardo’s sudden arrival had something to do with Altair’s temper tantrum, “so he took some time to work it out himself. I haven’t heard from him much.”

“It shows some maturity that he was aware he should figure out the matter himself,” Mother said. “I was going to pick up something for Kadar’s friends, would you please make sure your brother does not plot to do anything illegal or inadvisable?”

Malik nodded.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Are you coming back for Thanksgiving?
> 
> I can
> 
> They’re all crazy here.
> 
> Define crazy
> 
> They dress like pirates and throw people in the ocean
> 
> I was not expecting that.
> 
> What are we having for dinner?
> 
> I don’t know but you’re making the pie from last year.
> 
> Well I should come home pretty soon because I don’t remember how
> 
> It would be nice to see you too

Edward had woken him up in the morning by kicking him in the thigh and dragged him out to ride jet skis for a few hours before they went back to the ship. They laid out on the lower deck soaking up the sun and drying off while the women kept the kids busy somewhere inside (possibly working on their school work). Edward had his eyes closed and his arms crossed behind his head, completely at ease with the rock of the ship and the endlessness of the ocean around them.

“I don’t want to leave,” Altair said. He sat up and looked out at the glimmer of the sun across the uneven surface of the ocean. It didn’t comfort him (that endless water) but it was so far removed from anything that it felt like _peace_. 

“You know, I wasn’t given a choice. I mean, there was most likely a choice but when I was younger I couldn’t find it,” Edward said. He turned his head and opened his eyes a squint. His face was lined and heavy with the damage that he’d done to himself in his youth. There was a scar on his jaw and a flat strangeness to his nose. “I found a lot of things here, away from all the noise. Things that I couldn’t have found if I hadn’t been sent away. I found myself, I found what was important to me, I found my family and I’m happy here. I’m wouldn’t to tell you what to do with your life but I don’t think what you’re looking for is here.”

“You have a nice family,” Altair said.

Edward smiled. “That I do. They’ve seen me at some low points. I’ve had years of working off the things I’ve done to hurt them. I don’t know what seems so big that you can’t find a way around it but, you’re a kid. You’ll figure it out. Give yourself the time.” 

“Yeah,” Altair said. He laid back down and let the heat soak into his skin until he was sleepy from it. The silence was a comfortable sound with the rock of the boat and the lap of the waves. He didn’t fall asleep but the buzz of nothing-thoughts was almost the same. “You’re a good guy, Edward.”

“Thanks.” But also, “you’re a fucking mess.”

Altair laughed and Edward chuckled.

\--

> ### November 3, 2008: Saltair Fanfiction Contest Entries
> 
> Each link will open to a new page. Please read and then vote for your favorite three stories. The winners of the public vote will be judged by MariaThorpe, Son-of-No-One and myself. The winner will be read live by Son-of-No-One on November 24, 2008.
> 
> 1.  
>  Title: Chicken Noodle Soup  
>  Author: Komma  
>  Rating/Warning: R: crude language  
>  Summary: Altair had expected to meet Sass any number of ways but he hadn’t expected that she would be the cutest nurse in the hospital.
> 
> 2.  
>  Title: Under The Same Sky  
>  Author: AnaRocks  
>  Rating/Warning: R: adult situations, some adult language  
>  Summary: They meet at a lecture. Sass is there to study astrophysics and Altair got lost on campus and needed a place to take a nap. He’s not even a student but he’s not going to let that stop him from developing a deep love of stars just for the chance to find out more about this beautiful girl.
> 
> …

Desmond had a moral objection to reading nonsense fiction written about his real cousin. Lucy popped popcorn, bought a big bad of chocolate candy and laid on the couch with her laptop to ‘binge read’. She went so far as to take the day off so she could properly read and vote without being tired or distracted. 

Desmond went to sleep after work (and Lucy was reading), woke up eight hours later (and Lucy was reading), made dinner (and Lucy was reading) and played video games (while Lucy was reading). “You’re not even making noise anymore,” he said (to Lucy, who was reading).

“Shut up,” she said. “This is important. Sass is telling Altair about how they can’t be together because she’s not good enough for him and he has to convince her that she’s perfect to him. Ok? This is high quality rom-com bullshit and I want to know how it ends. So shut your face.”

Desmond sighed. “Are there any of them where he isn’t begging Sass to love him?”

“Yeah this one where he found out who she was and acted like an asshole about it so she had to drive to New York and yell at him about his attitude problems. They had hate sex and she left him but then he was sad because he really did like her even if she wasn’t that pretty. He wanted to just be friends and she told him to fuck off.” Lucy dug her hand into the bag of candy at her side and dropped a few more into her mouth. “That’s my favorite so far. Seems like the most realistic.”

“How many more do you have to read?”

“Like ten,” Lucy said. Then she went back to ignoring him.

\--

MariaThorpe: @Sass-Badger, good luck on this week’s Fun Facts. (10m ago)

Sass-badger: @MariaThorpe, I would say that you should wish @son-of-no-one luck but when he loses, donations are made to useful charities (8m ago)

MariaThorpe: ha! @Sass-Badger, it does @son-of-no-one good to lose now and again. It teaches humility. (7m ago)

Son-of-no-one: …that feeling when your best friend and your girlfriend team up against you… @sass-badger, @MariaThrope(3m ago)

Malik was in the dining room (where he could see into the living room easily) working on his blog. Mother was having a friendly dinner with some people at work (on a Wednesday of all days).

Stephanie had come over to work on a project that they finished thirty-nine minutes ago but she didn’t have to go home for another hour so they chose a movie to watch. Kadar was sitting in the middle of the couch and Stephanie was sitting on the side (at the start). It seemed to him that magnetic forces had come along and slowly-but-surely pulled their bodies at angles toward one another. Because Stephanie was very suddenly against his side and his fingers were pushed through hers before he was even sure how it happened. 

At some point he had been petting Aquila who seemed to do a better job chaperoning his dates than Malik. Sailor didn’t like Stephanie so he stayed upstairs on Kadar’s bed or in the window whenever she came over.

The movie was something Mother had bought from a clearance bin. The sort of thing that used meaningful sounding music to cover the lack of any actual plot. It was a cheap emotional story that wanted tears and got them by appealing to shared experiences. (Honestly, Kadar wouldn’t’ be surprised if someone’s dog died.) Stephanie wasn’t watching it and he knew that because he wasn’t watching it either.

She said, “is your brother looking?”

Kadar looked over his shoulder toward Malik to see him looking over the top of the laptop. His eyebrows were lifted up like asking if he was supposed to interrupt or let it continue (as far as a chaperone went, his brother was not the best choice). His hair (finally starting to grow out on the sides) was a mess of near-curls that looked even more ridiculous given his skeptical look of half-objection. 

“Maybe,” Kadar answered.

“I’m getting a drink,” Malik said so loudly he might as well announced he knew what they were thinking.

It wasn’t that Kadar didn’t know what they were thinking because Stephanie was warm all over and beautiful. Her kindness poured out of her chest like something he wanted to feel under his hands and her blush was sweet and pink along her cheeks. Her tongue went across her lips as she watched Malik go into the kitchen. But it was her courage—bold and brash—that kissed him. Her quick lips (soft and damp) that pressed to his mouth at a slant. 

There was absolutely nothing saintly in Kadar’s body. His every dirty thought was a living reality kissing him and it was amazing (to him, most of all) how quickly his body reacted to the prospect. Gone were noble ideals and in their place, his hand was touching her shoulder and his mouth was pressing back into the kiss like chasing it. It was her giggle and his tongue that made the kiss more than just lips touching. 

Her breath was a flutter between one kiss and the next. Her hand was against his chest and it was a firm touch across his fast-beating heart. 

Malik came back with a slap of a book against the dining room table. (The thing was, to drop a book, he had to have taken the time to get one off the shelf against the far wall of the dining room). Aquila meowed after the sound and Sailor darted across the room to invite himself up onto the table with a superior flick of his tail about tiny kittens that couldn’t jump well yet. Malik stroked Sailor’s fluffy white fur before he ducked down to pick up Aquila and set the kitten on the table. He spared one more glance at Kadar rather than offer wisdom or condemnation he just sat down and went back to his work. 

Stephanie was blushing a furious red with an irrepressible giggle in her throat. “Sorry,” she whispered. But her fingers stayed threaded through with his. “We should watch the movie.”

“Yeah,” he agreed. But neither one of them were paying attention to it.

\--

> [Livestream starts with a blurt of static before clearing. Altair is sitting, shirtless and very tan. Haytham is staring at the camera before reaching forward to put his finger against it.]  
>  Haytham: what is that light?
> 
> Altair: That’s the camera. I need you to go find your Dad now. You promised. [Haytham huffs a sigh and storms off complaining indistinctly.] Well, hello everyone and welcome to our third—third? Fun fact Friday. I’m not sure how well this wifi is going to hold me so cross your fingers. Let’s hope for the best. 
> 
> Altair: So let’s get right to it. Sass, they want to know: ‘who was Altair’s first kiss?’ [Altair looks at his phone.] The problem with this question is that while it seems like the perfect trap, it’s actually public knowledge. Sass says, ‘the girl that played Teresa on Family Blends.’ [Altair looks up at the camera and nods.] She was a year older than me too. It was a big deal because she had boobs. I mean, if you watch that show, I had boobs at the time but hers were girl boobs and they were better.
> 
> Altair: Next question, oh I like this. ‘Does Altair like roller coasters or water slides better?’ That’s a good question. Which one do I like better, Sass? [Altair makes a show of looking at his watch and tapping his finger against the table while waiting.] 
> 
> Altair: Sass doesn’t know. It’s okay. I like roller coasters better. But since you didn’t know that, I get to ask a question. So, can you sing? It doesn’t have to be professional quality but something better than Desmond would count. 

Malik was laying in his bed, thinking about the stupidity of Fun Fact Fridays. It had been a success this week (compared to whatever was wrong with the bastard over a slice of hot pizza last time) but it left a hollow sort of thing in its place. He could list facts about Altair for days, he could answer inane questions of strangers and try to explain how he could carry a tune but he wouldn’t be trying his hand at a recording career any time soon while Altair tried to get him to clarify by singing off key in different ways before finally doing it right.

But that was hours ago and he was tired (very tired) but the dull buzzing sensation in his chest wouldn’t give. It reminded him of those first few weeks out of the hospital and maybe it was that thought (or maybe it wasn’t) that drove him out of his bed and down to his brother’s door. Kadar was asleep because it was two-or-three in the morning and anyone with a brain was asleep. Sailor didn’t stir until Malik flicked the light on and the cat hissed dispassionately at him even before Kadar rolled onto his back to blink at him. 

“What?” he asked.

“Where’s the badger?” Malik asked.

Kadar looked too tired to be angry. Rather than address the stupidity of being woken up for a dumb request, he scooted to the edge of his bed and reached under it to drag a big plastic bag out. He threw it at Malik and yanked the blanket up over his head. “You’re welcome,” he said.

Malik turned the light back off and went back down the hall to his room. He had to rip the bag with his teeth because it was tied too tightly to work open with his sleep-dumb fingers. The stupid badger smelled the way it had when he took it out of the packaging back at Leonardo’s. Whether or not Altair meant for that smell to become a comfort, Malik had gotten used to falling asleep with it. He dropped the bag on the floor (and Aquila attacked it) before rolling onto his bed with the stupid badger. 

He thought of Altair’s sun-darkened skin and his smile and how he didn’t look weighed down by the world (so much, anymore). And the thought of the sunrise over the ocean followed him down into sleep.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I’m not sure how it’s going. I couldn’t think before. Now I feel isolated and rather than being unhappy about it like I have been in the past, I feel _free_. I feel like for the first time in longer than I can really remember, I don’t have to answer to someone else. I don’t think I understood how much of my time was spent trying to be something or someone that other people wanted. I don’t think I’ve ever taken the time to step back and try to think it through, to figure out what I actually want out of life or what I think of what I’ve been taught.
> 
> Yesterday I was talking to Haytham about my tattoos because he’s very interested in them. Edward has several of them and tells a variety of stories about their origins. So I was telling Haytham about mine. He asked me if I was going to get any more of them, what they would be and I told him that I thought I might get one for my Grandma. 
> 
> Edward doesn’t like her. He hasn’t ever said it outright but his memories of her are not the sort that would make her endearing to anyone. So I’m expecting him to tell me how I shouldn’t waste my time honoring the woman when she was a terrible person. Or something along those lines. But he says, well what would you get? Some kind of flower? Didn’t Phyllis love flowers? 
> 
> She did. I’ve thought about it for a long time but her favorite flowers were deadly nightshade and gladiolus. Pink and purple and I couldn’t imagine having these flowers tattooed on me and have to deal with the stupid shit that people would say about it. It doesn’t feel important to be scared of that when I’m floating in the ocean. I told him that she liked gladiolus best. And I’d thought about getting them tattooed on my left side. He told me how it would hurt and would take a while to finish if I wanted it in full color. 
> 
> The point isn’t that I’m thinking about this tattoo. The point is that all of my life, Edward has been the outcast. He was the bad influence. He was removed for fear of the damage that he would do. He’s not any of the things they told me he was.
> 
> It feels like I’ll never untangle the lies-and-half-truths that I’ve been told my whole life. But it also doesn’t feel like I’m going to boil from the inside out. So it’s an improvement, I think.
> 
> How are you?

Malik did not want to go out to get ice cream but Stephanie convinced Kadar that the best way to spend their Saturday afternoon was holding hands, licking ice cream cones and walking down a strip mall looking into windows talking about what kind of material crap they wanted in their lives.

Thus far he’d learned that Stephanie loved flowers and dainty furniture and that Kadar was outraged by the prices of fancy decorations. They dragged him into a clothing store where the single items of clothing cost more than Kadar’s entire closet of clothing. (That was not very much of an exaggeration.) Responsible adult types would have looked with their eyes but the stupid teenagers started a game of picking out clothes for the other to try on. So it was Kadar in gray jeans and some T-shirt with a surfboard on it grinning at himself in the mirror of the changing room area while Stephanie tried on pretty fall dresses and fur-lined boots. 

“We look good together,” Stephanie said. She was skinny, a dull-kind of pretty with long thin arms that went around his brother’s (surprisingly broad) back. Kadar was taller than her but not by a lot and they were smiling so stupidly at themselves in the mirror it was hard to be angry at them for anything. 

“Of course we do,” Kadar said. He looked at her like she was the sun and the stars and the moon wrapped up into one phenomenon. (And Malik thought, _how disgusting_ that notion really was and didn’t feel even the slightest bit like a hypocrite for it at all.)

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t want you to talk to me like we don’t know each other anymore. I can feel the way you must be hovering your fingers over the keyboard and I don’t know how to tell you that it’s not necessary. I was a pig-headed asshole before and I’m truly sorry for hurting you or making you feel as if you couldn’t talk to me like always. 
> 
> Please don’t think you have to be careful. Please talk about anything.
> 
> _S. Badger said_ :  
>  What sort of gladiolus tattoo would you get? How big and where?
> 
> It’s important to take the time to figure things out, even if it’s probably impossible to unravel all the things you’ve ever been told. 

“You were a good sailor,” Haytham told him when they dropped Altair back off at civilization. “We’ve never taken on a better man.” He looked genuinely sad to see him go (possibly because Altair had been instrumental in defeating Edward during the mutiny).

“I’ll visit again,” Altair promised. “Be good.”

Edward made sure he got to a hotel okay before he left. They hugged in the lobby and Edward slapped him on the back in an affectionate way. “Keep your head above water, kid.” There was the implication that he wanted to ruffle Altair’s hair even if did not actually do it.

“You too,” Altair said back. Edward laughed as he headed for the door. When he was gone, Altair was left standing in familiar luxury feeling the slowly collapsing weight of reality crushing him in place. He went to his room and directly to the tub to lay in the biting-heat of the too-hot water.

\--

notyourbrother: I just want to know why everyone things @sass-badger feels incomplete without a man. Why can’t she be her own person who also likes Altair? (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: @notyourbrother, I believe it has to do with the nature of the romance. (8m ago)

Notyourbrother: why isn’t @son-of-no-one, crying over being incomplete without a woman? Why is anyone incomplete? Why do you start wearing make-up and skirts? (6m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @notyourbrother, why am I characterized as a guy who thinks women should wear make-up and skirts if it’s not something they want? (4m ago)

Notyourbrother: @son-of-no-one, well probably because you’re dating @MariaThorpe so I’m sure you’ve seen her (2m ago)

Notyourbrother: the point isn’t that make-up and skirts is wrong, it’s that @sass-badger has to change to make the man happy. And that’s basically stupid. (1m ago)

Kadar spent three days convincing his Mother that sweat pants were an essential part of the overall protest before she consented to allowing him to wear them. (In fact, he had tried explaining it to her based on the notion that Jenna had said it was necessary and when he gave up ‘she told me to’ as a reason and explained how it would help their case, Mother had agreed.)

It was weird to walk around school in sweat pants and a T-shirt. He sat in the back of his classes while the teachers alternated between being proud of him for trying to make a change and glaring at him for disrupting the status quo. It had started with only him wearing the shirt and it spread out to a wealth of the girls wearing a shirt. He was surrounded by them while the boys scoffed and coughed insults at him. 

There was nothing unique or interesting about being called names. He had been butt of jokes often enough in his life that it wasn’t even worthy of note. He could have gone on indefinitely ignoring them if not for Scott Simmons catching him around a blind corner. 

Scott was a football type (but not a football player, an important distinction) with Ken-doll hair and an all-American jaw. He had a wide-mouth with a big grin and broad palms with long fingers that Kadar once had to listen to his partner in Biology talk about for twenty minutes while they were dissecting a frog. (He dissected it, she talked about how much she liked Scott’s hands and how they were masculine but delicate.) Scott _worked out_ to look _strong_ and shoved Kadar into the corner of the wall hard enough it was only the full thickness of his math textbook that saved him from bruises. 

Kadar had gotten shoved enough in Elementary school to develop an instant response to it. His body tightened up in the middle and his shoulders hunched forward. At eight, he’d been small enough to make a ball but at seventeen he was too damn big to cave his body into a smaller space. His heart was beating through his chest when he looked up at Scott. (Some part of him that wasn’t trying to figure out the best way out of this dim, abandoned corner was wondering where his big-brother-was, and wasn’t that funny when Malik hadn’t ever fought anyone in his life.) “Miss your turn?” Kadar asked.

“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Scott said. “What’s your problem? What is this bullshit? Is this a stunt? Because last year you were giving out chickens to get laid.”

“Goats,” Kadar corrected. He pulled away from the corner (just far enough so that if he got shoved again he’d hit the flat of the wall) and looked toward the sound of many footsteps not so far away. “I’m not doing this to get laid. I’m doing this because it’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re doing this because you want to get in Jenna’s pants. Well you can’t.” Scott shoved him again. “So stop.”

“You got dibs?” Kadar demanded. “Because the last time I talked to her, she wasn’t even remotely interested in you. The only thing about her pants she’s currently worried about is whether wearing them is going to get her kicked out of school.” He said the whole lot of it so fast that the words blurred together in the end. “She’s a person. You can’t call dibs on a person.”

Scott shoved him again and dug his hand into the soft space below Kadar’s shoulder. The pressure was a pointy pain that kept him in place so Scott could point at his face like a threat he never bothered to elaborate on. The moment stretched-and-stretched until Kadar thought he was going to _laugh_ from sheer nerves alone. Scott stepped back. “Stay away from Jenna. Pedal your faggot feminist bullshit to someone else.” Then he was striding away. 

Kadar slid down the wall and tried to catch his breath (he wasn’t even aware he’d lost) and calm the shake in his chest and his arms. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> What are you doing for Thanksgiving?
> 
> As this is not a holiday you celebrate I’m confused why you asked
> 
> I was trying to start a conversation
> 
> Well what an awful attempt.
> 
> Right, sorry
> 
> So, made a date to fuck Ezio yet?
> 
> Yes actually. I’m going out to spend a few days with him in California. Apparently I’m going to try to teach him how to draw for his show.
> 
> And you’ll just improve his blow job skills as an extra bonus
> 
> I thought I’d teach him how to ride cock
> 
> I was very gentle with him before.
> 
> You should fuck him from behind
> 
> I should.
> 
> Or that thing where you torture people by not letting them orgasm
> 
> No. He’s too new for that. It would scare him off.
> 
> Fuck him from behind then
> 
> Thank you for the advice.
> 
> How’s your brother’s protest going?
> 
> I don’t know.

Kadar was not transparent. 

Mother said: “something is bothering your brother,” two days ago. Malik had watched Kadar for some hint or clue that something was (in fact) bothering him and aside from the fact that Kadar didn’t notice he was being watched. Mother left them alone with the pretense of needing to do extra shopping but left behind the expectation that Malik should find out what was bothering Kadar and help him fix the problem.

“Hey,” Malik said. He invited himself into Kadar’s room and flopped back to sit on his bed. Kadar was on his left (unfortunate that) so he had lean his whole body into him rather than throwing his arm around his shoulders. “What happened?” 

Kadar was writing an essay (or trying) for English that thus far had nothing but a title and the header finished. He had notes all around him on the bed and the book he was doing the essay about sitting on the table by his bed with tons of little paper notes. His hands were resting against the keyboard without pressing keys. “Did you get pushed around in school?” Kadar asked.

“Actually pushed or verbally pushed?” 

There hesitancy in the answer was far more telling than the way Kadar shrugged and turned his head to look at him. “Either?”

“Verbally, there was some stuff said. Mostly by other guys. I avoided a lot of social situations and places. My crowd wasn’t interested in fitting in, we were too busy raising money to go prove how smart we were.” Malik stopped and tried to work out what he wanted to say Kadar. There was nothing _good_ in his silence and nothing _good_ in his head. “You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known, Kadar.”

That made his brother laugh. “I trade chickens for sex. Now I’m a faggot for believing in feminism. Or I’m just doing it to get laid. I’m not sure.” 

“Did you tell the girls that are in your group?” Malik asked. “I’m pretty sure that they are facing some criticism themselves and if one of them needed someone you’d be the first to volunteer to help. So, do something I wouldn’t—ask for help.”

Kadar smiled sadly down at his own hands. “I was trying to figure out if there was a way to ask Altair to wear my shirt without him finding out where we live. I couldn’t figure it out. No celebrity endorsement for me.” He sighed and leaned back against the bedframe. “So you’re back to sleeping with the badger. Does that mean he’s not a dick again?”

“I don’t know what he is,” Malik said. But then (with his heart beating a thousand beats a minute), “ask him anyway. Send an e-mail, ask him to wear it. It doesn’t matter if he knows where we live.”

“Do you think he’d do it?” Kadar asked.

“He’s done dumber shit for less of a good reason,” Malik said. “Stands to reason that he’d do this for a good one.” Malik had to twist around to get his hand on Kadar’s face and bash their heads together (gently). “I mean it though. You’re the best person I’ve ever met. Including Mom. Don’t let some douche take that away from you.”

Kadar nodded. “Thanks.”

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I wanted to ask a favor of you. I have written this e-mail enough times that I’m on the verge of just going to ask Sass to do this for me. I’m not certain how you two are handling the fallout over whatever happened but even without the obnoxious affection you have for one another I feel that Sass is better at forming words into logical sentences. 
> 
> Last month I started a protest against the inequality of school dress code standards. Specifically, our dress code is structured in a way that demands girls dress with absolute ‘modesty’ based solely on the premise that anything that is ‘tight’ or ‘low cut’ would be a distraction for the boys. As a boy and in fact, just a person, I feel that a share of the burden of not being distracted should be placed on the boy’s shoulders. I have several T-shirt designs made up to protest the inequality but other than getting mean looks from half my teachers, insults from other guys and two—as of now—conferences from the principal I have accomplished nothing. 
> 
> I know that thing in January where you wore skirts for a week was because you wanted something from Sass but I also like to think that you’re just actually a decent human being. It seems like, seeing how you’re surrounded by women, you’d be interested in making things more fair.
> 
> What I’m asking here is, could you get one of my shirts and take a picture of yourself wearing it?  
> 

“Why are we buying you another skirt?” Lucy asked. She was smaller than he remembered (which was odd because it hadn’t been any longer than a few months since he saw her) and far paler. The cold chapped her cheeks and made her frown at him. “I thought you were finished with the skirts.”

“The brother has this campaign to change the school dress code where he’s at so I ordered one of his shirts and I’m going to find a skirt much too short to wear to school,” Altair said. He held the door open and Lucy rolled her eyes as she went into the store. “What? It’s a worthwhile cause.”

“I’m not saying it isn’t a worthwhile cause. I just—did you ask Maria about it? I know how concerned with public image your faux-girl is and I feel like you should ask her about this before you do it.” They were immediately greeted by a lovely woman who tried to be very understanding about how Altair wanted to find a pretty skirt that was too short to be decent enough for school and yet of an average length for the current fashion.

“Have you read the stories submitted to your thing yet?” Lucy asked him when they were in the fitting room. She was sitting on the bench while Altair tried on a pile of skirts to find the one that fit approximately how he’d envisioned it. (That was a slow-going process, apparently.) 

“No,” Altair said. “I only have to read the top five so why bother reading the rest of them. I’m sure I’m a dick in all of them.” He turned sideways to look at how the skirt fell in the back and smoothed is hand over it. The hem was most definitely not fingertip length but he liked the way it looked. 

“There is a reoccurring theme about how you don’t handle the reveal well. Most people seem to think that you’ll do something stupid. There’s like three? That seem to think that it’ll be Sass that does something stupid.” Lucy made a face at the skirt and shook her head so he unzipped it and let it fall on the ground before kicking it over with the others. 

“And what do you think I’ll do if I ever get to meet Sass?” Altair asked. He stepped into the next one and tugged it up to zip it. It was tighter across his ass than the other ones had been and only slightly longer when it actually did flare out to give him space to move his legs. “Do you side with the ones that think I’ll be an asshole or the ones that think I’ll just cry the whole time?”

Lucy snorted. “This is the skirt. It’s perfect because it’s distracting me and I don’t even have a thing for men in skirts.” She nodded appreciatively before looking up at his face rather than his ass. “I think that if you’re given the opportunity to meet Sass that you would take it. I want to think that you’d destroy every obstacle that keeps you for having that opportunity. But then you went off and started a fake relationship with a skeleton so I don’t really know.”

“Maria is not a skeleton,” Altair said.

“My apologies,” Lucy said. “A ghoul.” She smiled so endearingly that he didn’t call her a bitch (but he thought it, anyway). 

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I am sending you several photos in a zip file. I will also do a video or post something to twitter if it will help your case. I only hesitate because that kind of thing garners immediate media attention especially since I am currently dating Maria Thorpe. That kind of media attention would lead to a deeper investigation into the source of this protest. If you decide that you would like me to do so, I will but I believe it would be advisable if it was not mentioned that it was related to you specifically.
> 
> More importantly, I wish you the best in your attempts. If there is anything else I can do to help you, up to and including, in a monetary fashion please do not hesitate to send me a message. I had considered giving you a sum of money with which to purchase these shirts. I do not know the economy of the average teenager but I imagine that your protest would benefit from the accessibility of free shirts. Let me know what would be helpful.

The trouble with Malik’s suggestion to just tell the girls that sometimes the other guys called him names and pushed him into walls was that sooner or later, Kadar was going to end up in the men’s room or the locker room and there was nothing the girls could do to save him then. 

There were strength in numbers, but there was more intelligent strength in not antagonizing a situation that already sucked. If he started walking around school with a cloud of girls surrounding him like his own personal body guard, he would inevitably end up getting cornered in the boy’s room. So he kept his mouth shut about it, and he kept campaigning for more people to join his protest. The jerks like Scott Simmons were satisfied that he’d been warned (mostly) and Kadar didn’t have to check under stalls every time he needed to use the bathroom. 

Except that Jenna had taken up finding him at lunch to smile at him out in the courtyard where the air was bitter with cold (and the jocks did not go). She sat next to him on the cold bench and asked him how the protest was going and how nobody had ever stood up for her before. 

“Yeah,” Kadar was saying, “I have the art team coming over to look at this new set of pictures I’ve got. We’re going to make posters I think.” He wanted to eat his (greasy, greasy) pizza and French fries in peace but Jenna was leaning in against his shoulder with a laugh stuck in her throat and her hair all over his arm. 

“I could help,” she said, “I’m pretty good with computers and slogans.”

Kadar was trying to move away from her without making it obvious. “Uh, it’s Saturday morning I think,” he said. “You’re welcome to come if you want. They’re meeting at my house but I have to leave at noon because I have a date with Stephanie.”

“No, I’ll come. I can bring doughnuts or something. Do you like doughnuts?” Jenna was smiling at him and Kadar had grease all over his mouth and an uncomfortable tight lust brewing up in his belly because Jenna was the sort of girl that everyone wanted to get to smile at them. (She even smelled pretty.) 

The lust was offset in his gut with a deep sort of dread. “Yeah,” he said. “Sounds good. I’m going to go.” Then he slid off the end of the bench he hadn’t realized was so close and stumbled up to his feet. He threw his food (only half eaten) into the trash and motioned toward the doors. “I have to finish my homework for my next class.” 

“It’s freezing out here anyway,” Jenna agreed. She got up and caught his hand before he could run (as fast as possible) away from here. “Look. I know you’ve got a girlfriend. I’m not trying to date you. I just—you’re the most decent guy I’ve ever met. I’m really grateful and I want to help. That’s all.”

“Oh,” Kadar said. “Ok. Thanks—you’re welcome?”

Jenna laughed and the lifted her arms. “Can I hug you?”

Sure, as long as she didn’t get very close. He nodded and stooped down so she could get her arms over his shoulders. It gave him a useful excuse for keeping all the space between their bodies. When she let him go, he smiled at her smile and she went in through the door that led to the cafeteria while he headed toward the one that took him back toward the office. He passed by the full-length windows in time to see Scott’s best friend Tom shaking his head at him. 

“Fuck,” Kadar said. He didn’t run (but he wanted to) but turn his face away and kept walking. 

\--

> ### November 17, 2008: Saltair Fanfiction Public Vote Winners:
> 
> The top five stories, as chosen by the public vote, are:
> 
> 1.  
>  Title: Chicken Noodle Soup  
>  Author: Komma  
>  Rating/Warning: R: crude language  
>  Summary: Altair had expected to meet Sass any number of ways but he hadn’t expected that she would be the cutest nurse in the hospital.
> 
> 2.  
>  Title: Google Search: Love  
>  Author: Oh! Crates  
>  Rating/Warning: R: crude language. Adult situations  
>  Summary: one day, Altair just can’t deal with it anymore. He decides he’s going to find out who Sass is if it kills him. So he starts searching for every woman he’s ever had sex with and doesn’t stop until he finds her.
> 
> 3.  
>  Title: A Gentle Fear of Failure  
>  Author: SaltySocks  
>  Rating/Warning: R: crude language, adult situations  
>  Summary: Altair had everything that a man could ever want and many things that no man could have thought of wanting. He’s never had to try to do anything and that must be why he’s so afraid of failing. All he wants now is to prove that he’s a good enough man for Sass.
> 
> 4.  
>  Title: After all These Years  
>  Author: AlsoMariaThorpe  
>  Rating/Warning: T, brief intense language  
>  Summary: It’s been years now. Altair got married, became a father and got divorced. He thinks it’s the end of something but Sass convinces him that it’s just another chance. Will they be smart enough to take it this time?
> 
> 5.  
>  Title: Never Enough for You  
>  Author: Aquiliafication  
>  Rating/Warning: R, crude language, sexual situations, brief nudity  
>  Summary: Altair’s willing to do anything for the chance to meet Sass.

Maria flew all the way across the ocean to lay on his bed in her underwear and read the printed-out top-five of the fanfiction contests. Her glorious body was an odd distraction while he sat with his back against the headboard and tried to read through the utter nonsense that involved him throwing himself at some _woman_ while Sass-the-woman came up with absolutely stupid reasons why they hadn’t met.

“This one isn’t bad,” Maria said. “You know, except for how I’m apparently such a terrible wife you forgot what love was like. At least you’re not an idiot in it.” She finished it and dropped it in the to-read pile at his side. Rather than pick up the last one, she reached up to pinch his ear and when he looked down at her, she smiled at him. “What’s wrong?”

“I have to read one of these?” Altair said. 

“Did you figure out what you’re going to do about Malik?”

Nobody used Sass’ name. (Of course they didn’t. They didn’t know his name, not even Desmond knew it and Altair couldn’t bring himself to say it.) It was only Maria that wouldn’t call him Sass, that wouldn’t keep referring to him as the persona on the internet but kept hammering in the image of that kid that Altair ran out on. “I figured out that I don’t want to lose him,” Altair said. “I don’t know more than that. I’m _not_ doing any of these stupid things,” he said.

“You’ll do something even stupider,” Maria resolved. She rolled over onto her belly and picked up the last story. “Which one of these do you want to read out loud? I vote against the one where I’m so evil I’ve sucked the joy out of your soul. The one where you go looking for your old girlfriends is fun.”

“Which one is that?” Altair asked. Maria handed it to him. “We should go to Desmond’s bar. You can see him do tricks. I can wash this stupidity out of my head.”

“Sounds lovely,” Maria said. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> quick question, how much does it hurt to get hit in the face
> 
> Kadar what’s happening
> 
> I just need to know
> 
> What’s happening
> 
> Call your brother
> 
> Kadar

It wasn’t a locker room. It wasn’t the bathroom. So it seemed useless that Kadar had spent so much dread avoiding those places. He had made an art (in the past four days) of slipping in and out of places without being seen. 

When Scott (Neanderthal) Simmons finally caught up to him, it wasn’t on school property at all. It seemed like the sort of thing that was too intelligent for the kid to manage to think up on his own. Maybe the hunchback henchman at his side was the brains that pointed out starting a fight on school grounds would result in punishment. Kadar saw them standing around looking casual on the sidewalk where he walked home (almost always) just beyond sight of the school itself. Kadar stopped only long enough to pull his phone out of his pocket. There was absolutely no way to get around Scott—he could have crossed the street but that seemed like a diversion tactic. 

Kadar could have knocked on someone’s door. The idea crossed his mind and flitted away again. He texted Leonardo because he was looking for something like bravery in his chest. Then he tucked his phone inside of his coat pocket where it was least likely to get broken and walked up to meet Scott. “Hey,” he said with both his hands in his pockets and his head cocked to the side. It wasn’t bravery (exactly) but the knowledge that it was _inevitable_. 

(He had to wonder, in that second, if maybe that wasn’t what Leonardo had felt like standing opposite Altair.)

“Look at the funny guy,” Scott said to Tom. Then he shoved him with both his perfectly-masculine hands. The force was great enough to knock Kadar over (no surprise there) and he tried to roll his body so he landed on his ass and managed it more or less. He pulled his legs up and covered his head because the scuffle of shoes was immediate. Scott-or-Tom (hard to tell when he wasn’t looking) kicked him in the leg and then on his book bag and up to where his knees were doing a poor job of folding close to his chest. They were heavy-breathing-thugs overtop of the shuffle of feet and the bright-hot-strike of shoes that popped like starbursts of intense pain and sound before fading into the next one.

It was impossible to know if he was making noise until it ended and the sound of his breathing trapped between his chest and his elbows was louder than anything. Scott’s hand fisted in his hair and he dragged him up enough to smirk in his face, “learn huh? Your brother was smart, right? Take after him. Leave the girls for the real Americans? Huh.” Then he slapped Kadar on the face and got back to his feet.

The aftermath was nothing. Kadar pushed himself up, groaned at the fresh ache in his legs when he straightened them out. There were forming bruises swelling up in his thighs. His elbow felt like it had been rubbed raw. There was a rip in his pants across the knee and blood smeared everywhere on it. His face was _red_ as hell, hot and damp with sweat (or tears). 

But there was no point in sitting there. Kadar got back up to his feet and winced at the pain in his left knee. He took a minute to convince himself that he could manage the last three blocks to his house and then force himself to start walking. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Where’s your brother?
> 
> Fuck it.

Malik’s cell phone started ringing halfway through the afternoon. It drew the attention of one of the younger ladies with the front office and he offered an embarrassed smile before pulling it out of the drawer it rested in to look at the caller. He silenced it (because it was Leonardo) but didn’t even get it halfway back to the drawer before it as ringing again. 

Malik silenced it again.

Leonardo called him back.

So he got up from his seat with a mumbled apology to the woman who was witnesses the show and went toward the break room. The hallway took him past his Mom’s office as he held the phone up to his ear and hissed, “what? I’m at work.” 

“Find your brother, dickface,” Leonardo snapped back at him. “I know you’re at work that’s why I called you. He just sent me a text asking how it felt to get hit in the face.”

“What?” Malik demanded.

Mother was in the doorway of her office looking displeased to see him standing there and Malik was trying to figure out how to translate what Leonardo said into words that she would understand. 

“Was that all he said?” Malik asked. He was already turning around. “I have to go,” he said to his Mother. He was jogging before he made it to the door (he didn’t grab his coat) and Leonardo’s answer was a half-understood _then he stopped sending messages_. Malik had taken up jogging as a hobby months ago but he was _running_ across traffic, toward the side-streets that would take him back to his house. The distance between him-and-his-house (some stupid part of his brain assumed Kadar would be) was measured in the quick-beat of his heart and the absolute-certainty that the idiot _hadn’t listened_.

His chest was heaving and every part of his body was singing from half-realized tension before he turned into the walkway that led up to his house. It was three steps off the front sidewalk and he crashed into the front door in his attempt to run-and-open it at the same time. He shouted, “Kadar!” as he slammed it behind him. “Kadar!” as he ran for the steps. “Kadar!” halfway up them. 

“Kadar!” down the hallway, skidding on the rug that moved up and down the short hall before he slapped into the doorframe of Kadar’s room. His brother was sitting on the edge of his bed with his shirt off, bruises up and down his back and a bottle of peroxide laying against his thigh. There was a thousand demands that Malik wanted to make (and a hundred more things he couldn’t think-through far enough to say).

Kadar looked at him. There was dirt in his hair and pink spots all over his face like he was working so hard to keep from crying. Malik had _never_ felt anger in the way he felt it in that moment. “Don’t,” Kadar said. His voice was a cracking sound, breaking apart even as he put his hand up like he was holding off whatever he thought Malik would say. His tongue was across his lips. “I’m fine.” 

Maybe Malik had never (ever) understood what Altair felt when he was moved to violence (before) but he knew (for absolute certainty) that he would _find_ and he would _hurt_ the boys that had done this to his brother. It was filling up his chest until the acid burn of it was all he could feel over the stunned-silence. “You should call the cops. Mom is going to make you call the cops.”

“No,” Kadar said. “Malik. You can’t let her do that. I can’t be the kid that trades chickens for sex and gets beat up and calls the cops and who are they going to believe anyway?” 

Malik’s phone was ringing and he looked at it. It was Mother (no doubt wondering what had prompted her son to run out of work without an explanation) and Malik sighed as he answered it and brought the phone up to say, “hello Mother.”

Kadar was looking at him like begging him to please-please-please save him from the inevitable. There were bruises on his forearms and his knee was bleeding down his leg. The scuff marks on his pants seemed to be like a pattern of the blows that had been landed. 

Mother said: _what happened_.

“Someone hurt Kadar,” Malik said. There was nothing (absolutely nothing) forgiving in his chest but there were tears on his face to match the ones that were going down Kadar’s and the look of _fear_ (but not betrayal) was so intense that it seemed like a _sound_. 

“What?” Mother said. “Why? Where is he?”

“We’re at home,” Malik said. 

“I’ll be there shortly.”

Malik hung up the phone and set it on the dresser by the door. He went over to sit by Kadar on the bed but he was shoved back. Kadar got to his feet and slapped him. “I told you not to!” and Malik let himself be pushed back once-or-twice because Kadar was gritting his teeth and snarling nonsense about _never being listened to_. “You don’t ever listen to me!” Kadar shouted. “No!” he shoved Malik again. “No.”

“They’re going to pay for what they did,” Malik said. “They are _not_ going to hurt you and walk away,” he said. 

“You should care about me!” Kadar shouted at him. “Me!” he hit himself in the chest. “I don’t want this! I don’t!” He put his hand against Malik’s chest and he held him away but his resolve was shaking in a way not so unlike how he couldn’t quite put his foot against the ground. The knee that was bleeding was swelling inside his pants. “I don’t want the cops involved, Malik.”

“Then we won’t involve them,” Malik said. “I’ve got lawyers far more effective and far worse than any cop.”

Kadar snorted a half laugh. “Call up you boyfriend, Malik. Tell him there’s some people that need his attention.” But there was nothing funny in the way he said it. His hand slipped off Malik’s chest and he sniffled as he looked down at his own body. “My knee hurts.”

“Let’s get you out of the pants before we have to cut them,” Malik said. He turned back to the dresser to pull it open and found a pair of Kadar’s sleeping pants that had the wide-wide legs. He stood close enough his brother could lean his weight on him to steady himself rather than put pressure on his injured knee. 

The bruises on his legs weren’t as dark as the ones on his back. They were plentiful but shallow. His knee was swollen and rubbed-raw but the bleeding was superficial. Malik cleaned it up with the peroxide and paper towels before Mother made it home. 

The sound of her feet on the stairs was a rush of noise far more damning than the cold fury that Malik felt. She didn’t crash into the doorway the way that Malik had but come through in a quick dash of movement. She stopped short in front of Kadar, looked at his swollen knee and the fading pink of his face. 

“Who fucking did this?” Mother asked. The look on her face was every drop of fury that filled up Malik’s body. “Who would _do this_?” was a different question just before her hands touched Kadar’s face and she cradled his cheeks against her palms before picking the dirt out of his hair. There was a confusion of things it looked as if she would say before she looked sideways at him. 

“I have to make a call,” Malik said.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> The story is that two boys in his class took offense to the fact that a girl neither of them were dating hugged my brother because he’s a decent human being. Rather than handle it like disappointed but mature individuals, they decided that they would wait for him on his route home and they knocked him down and kicked him repeatedly. The physical damage is mostly superficial.
> 
> I forgive you for what you did. I forgive you for any time you used violence to solve your problems. Some part of me remembers that it’s a barbaric way to settle differences but the majority of my thoughts revolve around how very much I would like to find these boys and make sure they understand that nobody hurts MY BROTHER and walks away.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  What happened? Are you okay? Did someone hurt you? Is your brother ok? What happened? 
> 
> _S. Badger wrote:_  
>  Are your psychotic cousins for rent? I could use one or two of them.

Altair wasn’t relieved at being forgiven. He was alone in his apartment, after midnight (quite a while after midnight) trying to reason out how long it would take to drive to Connecticut and if he could figure out who had hurt Kadar (and hurt them) before anyone noticed. There was a certain satisfaction to physical violence that was unmatched by any more refined vengeance in the world. 

Rather than find a car that could make the drive, he found the number of Malik’s lawyer and called him. He expected the phone to ring on-and-on and was pleasantly surprised when it was picked up quickly. “Mr. Stern,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,” the lawyer answered. It wasn’t surprising that he’d saved Altair’s number in his phone. After the many demands he’d made when Malik had been in the accident, it was probably supremely logical to recognize the number. “If you are calling about the current matter regarding Sass and the brother I am already on my way.”

“Good,” Altair said. He looked back at his computer screen and felt a kind of quiet understanding in his chest. “Does Mr. Walters and Ms. Ferdinand still work at the firm?”

The silence on the opposite end of the phone was deafening. There was an awe (and appropriate fear) in the answer, “yes, sir. Would you like me to call them? Do you feel that is necessary?”

“Get a good look at the damage, not just the physical damage but the total picture and call me back with a brief but frank assessment. As a precaution, please contact them so they are aware there may be a case that requires their _particular_ specialty, please?” He let the words linger there a moment and marinated in the old-old sensation of _danger_ that he had felt as a child when Grandmother was on the white phone in her office at the mansion and she said, _call Mr. Walters and Ms. Ferdinand_ the way story books talked about foolish people poking sleeping giants. 

“Yes, sir,” Mr. Stern said. “I’ll call you as soon as I have an answer.”

\--

notyourbrother: RT: “deigoruns: shut up @notyourbrother, stop trying to impress your sister with your feminist bullshit.” First, feminism is not bullshit. (5h ago)

Notyourbrother: second, your implication that my interest in feminism to ‘impress my sister’ is quite possibly the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. In part because, (5h ago)

Notyourbrother: my “feminist bullshit” would not be an effort to impress her but an effort to make the world a fair and safe place for her. But also in part because, (5h ago)

Notyourbrother, I am a feminist because of @sass-badger and because of my Mother and because of my girlfriend, and my friends and every woman that I’ve ever met. (5h ago)

Notyourbrother, I’m a feminist because it’s disgusting that women are treated as expendable sexual objects instead of people. So no, @deigoruns, I will NOT be shutting up. (5h ago)

BestofThree: see now, @notyourbrother, the world needs so many more of you. Don’t listen to the foolish little boys. You are a sweetheart. (3h ago)

College4Coffee: @notyourbrother, well said. I am a feminist for very similar reasons. (3h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @notyourbrother, don’t listen to them. There may seem like they’re a lot of them but you’re standing on the right side, kid. We’ll protect you. (1h ago)

The lawyer showed up at eight in the morning, looking taller, younger and far more casual than Kadar expected. He introduced himself as Anthony (call me Tony) Stern and said that he was there to do whatever would help resolve the situation.

Mother went to work (for two hours, just until she had to leave to get Kadar to the doctor about his swollen knee) and Malik stayed home. He sat at the table at Kadar’s side, across from the lawyer and his spread of papers and quick-scribbled notes while he asked gentle questions about the boys involved and the events leading up to ‘the assault’. 

“Do you need to see the bruises?” Malik asked halfway through the lawyer trying to ask what kind of damage there was.

Tony’s face was very smooth (devoid of most emotion) but an understanding passed between Malik’s quietly furious face and Tony’s gentle-and-unassuming one. He nodded his head and Malik looked at Kadar. “Please?” he said.

Kadar stood up and pulled his shirt over his head. Malik had his hand against his side to keep him from losing his balance. Once his shirt was over his head, he could see the lawyer’s eyes widened and then return to normal. His tongue was out across his lips as he cleared his throat. 

“Are those the only marks?” he asked.

“No,” Kadar said. “They’re on my legs too.”

“He hasn’t seen the doctor yet,” Malik said. “We’re not sure what the damage to his knee is.”

“I understand,” Tony said. Then he flipped his book closed and he rested his hands on top of it. He didn’t flinch from the words that he was about to say but it was implied in the way he said (so very calmly), “following your accident, I was advised not to seek the harshest punishment available. There was the general feeling from the other members of your family that the accident—though unfortunate and preventable—was not malicious and that no good would result from seeking vengeance rather than justice. What has happened here is clearly an example of malicious intent.”

Kadar nodded as he sat. “What does that mean?”

Malik’s mouth was pulling up at the edges. “If you’re asking if what happened here is worse than what happened to me, the answer you need to pass along is _it most definitely is_. This is _my brother_. I am not the rest of my family, I am not burdened with their morals. I am not in possession of their forgiveness. You let the man that did this to me walk out of justice but these ones will not. Pass that on. It’s all you need from us.”

Tony nodded his head. “Of course, sir.” Then he packed up his things and left his card. He said, “I’ll see myself out.”

When they were alone again, Kadar looked at Malik. “Did you just tell that man you wanted to order a hit on two high school kids?” He couldn’t figure out if he was impressed (or scared, or something in between) about it. There was too much pain in his leg to think much of anything except for where he’d put the ice pack. “Because I get that you’re upset but this isn’t worth death.”

Malik sighed at him. “The Auditore family is not connected to the mafia,” he said. “But Altair has his Grandmother’s lawyers.” Then he got up to his feet. “Come on, let’s get you to the couch. I’ll get the ice and some more pain killers.” He waited at Kadar’s side until he hobbled back up to his feet and slid his arm around Kadar’s back to help him walk to the couch.

“Mom wouldn’t like you know,” Kadar said. “She didn’t want this when it was you. She wouldn’t want it now.” It seemed worthwhile to say. It made Malik pause in his retreat toward the kitchen. 

“I’m not Mom,” Malik said. “Do you want me to call him and tell him to stop?”

Kadar hadn’t slept (couldn’t sleep, not for longer than minutes at a time) and his body ached-and-hurt. He was _ashamed_ of what had been done to him and it was hanging all around him _all the time_ like something he couldn’t think around save for when Malik was right-there next to him distracting him with stupid-questions and homicidal glares. “No,” he said. “But, I’d be just as happy if the gorilla cousin threw one of them on the ground and kicked them.”

Malik half-smiled at that. “I think someone would notice that,” he said. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “Food?”

“I’ll be back.” Then Malik handed him the remote. 

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Why did Leonardo just ask me what ‘our lawyers specialize in’?
> 
> Maybe he wants a prenup before you fuck him again
> 
> Pre-nuptials are for marriage not sex.
> 
> I’m aware
> 
> Is there something going on?
> 
> There is nothing going on that involves you except in the most peripheral sense
> 
> What lawyers is he talking about?
> 
> Walters and Ferdinand
> 
> Is it so serious?
> 
> Someone hurt my family, Ezio.
> 
> God have mercy on their souls.

Desmond was sitting at his table looking half-asleep (the way he always had the last time he had a job) and half-amused as Altair peeled the apples for the pie. There were already four failures cooling at the end of the table and another one in the oven that seemed like it was almost right. “So did you do this last year?”

“Yes,” Altair said. “Honestly, blood might be the secret ingredient. I think I almost cut my finger off last year.” He had gotten better at using the knife to peel the apple. While he couldn’t get the one long strip of the peel (how he wanted to) he could get over half of it in one long spiral before it broke. “So you said Lucy’s folks want you to go visit for Christmas. Are you going to go?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond said. He sat back in his chair. “I know you were going out to California for the Auditore thing but I wasn’t sure you would this year and I—I didn’t want you to be alone.”

Altair shrugged. “I don’t think I’ll be invited this year. I can go hang out with Maria. She asked me about it.” 

“Sure?” Desmond asked. “What’s happening with Sass? You don’t talk about her anymore.”

That was because she was a man. And Altair knew his name and where he lived and couldn’t figure out if he wanted to put that knowledge to good use or not. Instead of any of that (or all of it), Altair smiled. “I’m keeping Sass to myself. Too many people with too many opinions. This one is mine—to do right or fuck up, I want to know that the choices I make are mine.” He dropped the apple peel into the pile and started cutting the apple into slices. “So, Lucy talk to you about how you’re supposed to come _on_ her and not _in_ her yet?”

“Oh my _God_ ,” Desmond said. “ _You’re_ the one that said that stupid shit to her? Maybe I don’t want to come all over my girlfriend! Why is that so offensive?”

Altair laughed at the outrage on Desmond’s face. “I have—you don’t even want to know where I’ve put my come.”

“No I don’t,” Desmond retorted. “But yes, to answer your question, she did mention it. Once or twice. Three or four times. Maybe more.” He was so exasperated by it that Altair couldn’t’ stop laughing at him. “Shut up. You’re stupid.” Then Desmond picked up a handful of apple slices to throw at him. “And your pies are awful!”

Altair threw the apple slices back at him, “stop it, I need these to make the pie!” But neither of them did a very good job at regaining maturity. They didn’t stop until the apples (and flour, and sugar) were a mess all over the floor and they were laughing where they’d fallen on their asses.


	54. Chapter 54

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The links in Malik/Altair's e-mail are real working links. You should click on them.

> FROM: K. [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I know that you’re doing what Sass asked you. I get that this is all supposed to help somehow and that it’s important that the guys that hurt me don’t get to walk away like nothing happened. I didn’t want the man that hurt Sass to get away either but I knew it wasn’t right to exercise the fullest reach of your rich-man’s vengeance on him either. I had the space there, in that hospital while Sass was unconscious and wounded, to think about what the right thing was.
> 
> I keep trying to think this out but it’s muddled. This isn’t the first time that I’ve been shoved into a locker or mocked. It’s not the first time some guy knocked me down for things they are too stupid to understand. Things like that happen to everyone and nothing is done. I am not unique and I can almost convince myself that the reason I don’t want this—Sass’ and your vengeance—is that I don’t deserve it more than any other kid that got smacked around for offending the wrong person.
> 
> I don’t know. You’ve got Sass on your side because not even I can say that I wouldn’t appreciate eye-for-an-eye violence right now. Sass thinks violence is the lowest form of justice. You should have heard the lectures. I never asked Sass to fight for me, because it went against that belief. I want someone to hurt them. _I_ want to hurt them. I don’t want to be afraid of them anymore. That’s neither here nor there.
> 
> I thought of you when I knew there was no point in running. I thought of what you did to Leonardo. I have an idea why it happened. I have an idea of how effective Leonardo is at provoking the responses he wants. But I thought of you when I was waiting for them to hit me, wondering what it felt like to be on the other side, you know? 
> 
> What are you going to do to them?

Kadar was stuck on the couch with ice packs and a knee brace for (the whole weekend, at least). Malik had gone upstairs when they returned from the doctor to fetch all of his pillows, his blanket and his computer for him. With minimal arguing, they had made a comfortable nest out of the couch. His body ached everywhere and no position was entirely good for keeping pressure off the various bruises. He thought viciously uncharitable thoughts about how those two bastards must have made some kind of plan about the distribution of blows while he tried to wiggling into the least painful position. 

Mother came back from the drug store with pain medicine and brought him lunch made out of leftovers, a glass of water and the pills. She sat on the chair that Malik had pulled obnoxiously close (possibly for this very purpose) before disappearing upstairs (to plot the hit he’d ordered on Scott and Tom, presumably) while he ate. Her fingers were soft in his hair when she touched him with that same look of worried sadness. “Do you need to talk?” she asked.

It wasn’t that he didn’t need to, but that he didn’t want to. “I don’t—want to talk,” Kadar said. He expected her to tell him that no good would come from letting things fester (and it didn’t) but she nodded her head instead. Her hand pushed his hair away from his face and she dipped forward to kiss his forehead. “Thanks,” he said.

“I love you,” she said before she kissed his forehead again. Then she handed him his pills and the water and waited while he finished taking them. “I have to return to work. Where is your brother?” But she didn’t wait for an answer before she walked around the couch to get to the stairs. She did not shout but walk up the stairs in search of where Malik had gone. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> How’s your brother?
> 
> Asleep on the couch right now
> 
> the doctor gave him some good pain killer
> 
> he’s been asleep most of the day since yesterday
> 
> When he wakes up, tell him to send me a text since he scared the shit out of me.
> 
> I will

“Hey,” Malik said. He had fallen asleep (again) in the chair with his feet pressed hard to the floor to keep from falling off. Kadar was sitting up on the side of the couch and the only reason he hadn’t managed to escape despite Malik’s (assigned, imperative) duty to watch him was because one of the crutches had fallen over when he tried to grab it. “Where are you going?”

“Bathroom,” Kadar said. He looked dazed by the sunlight outside and the TV playing a dull roar of Saturday-morning-programming. Most of all he looked confused by the pile of pillows on the couch and the few that had fallen on the ground. “What time is it?”

Malik dug his phone out of his pocket. “Nine?”

“I need a shower,” Kadar said. 

“Ha,” Malik retorted. He stretched and something popped in his back that reminded him (with a distinct but brief pain) why sleeping in arm chairs was inadvisable. “Unless you want me in there with you holding you up, give up that dream.” He got to his feet and picked up the fallen crutch. “You can have a sponge bath.”

Kadar glared at him. “You’re enjoying this aren’t you?”

“Oh yes,” Malik answered. “Why do you need a shower? You don’t smell that bad.”

“The girls are coming over today. I haven’t called Stephanie yet to tell her I can’t go out.” He scratched at his hair and yawned again. “Why did you let me sleep all day and night?” But the yawn filled up the words so they were more like indistinct sounds than actual words. “Come on, help me get upstairs.”

They managed to get up the stairs, to the bathroom on their own before Mother found them arguing about how to manage a sponge bath in their bathroom. Malik was shouting at Kadar about being stubborn (for no reason) and Kadar was shouting at him forgetting about how he’d been all set on quietly never bathing rather than submitting to a sponge bath. 

“Boys,” Mother said from the doorway behind them. Malik had to turn sideways so they could both see her. Kadar was sitting on the closed lid of the toilet with his foot resting on the tub so his knee wasn’t completely bent. “Kadar, you cannot stand in the shower. Malik, you should have more patience. I’ll get a basin from the kitchen.”

Malik rolled his eyes and Kadar smirked up at him (like he’d won) before he started tugging at his shirt to get it off. It got stuck with his arms halfway up because he was stiff (one assumed) from being kicked around and sleeping on the couch. Malik had to pull it up the rest of the way and set it on the sink. “How hot do you like the water?”

“Like, just below blistering,” Kadar said. “And I like the peach soap.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> There really is no excuse for what I did to Leonardo. I’m not saying that to you now because of the present circumstances. I felt justified in doing it and while I know it’s wrong, I’m not entirely sorry that it happened. Regardless of that, it was still wrong and there was no excuse for it. Leonardo’s attempts to provoke me were non-violent. My response was an unnecessary escalation.
> 
> I have been in your situation, on your side of the situation, before. I was much younger than you but I remember the feelings of shame and powerlessness that I couldn’t shake. When my Grandmother was alive, she handled the situations for me. When I lived with my cousins, Federico or Ezio picked me up from school every day. There was always the feeling that someone was waiting for the chance to catch me in the locker room by myself or to trap me somewhere my cousins could not see. It did not happen, but the lack of it coming to fruition did not change the feeling that it was _possible_. It didn’t help me feel any less powerless.
> 
> There is no excuse for what these boys did to you. There will be no mercy given to them from me or Sass unless you ask for it. As for what is planned for them, my Grandmother always said to me, ‘everyone will reap what they sow, you will never forget what happened to you because of them and now they will never forget it either.’ I cannot tell you specifics because I am not intimately involved but I do know it is all legal.
> 
> I am the last person on this planet that is qualified to give advice to anyone, but as someone who has felt like a dull, unwanted, powerless child for the majority of his life, my advice to you is to find a way to stand up for yourself _now_ while it matters the most. There is no shame in what happened to you except for the shame that is on those other boys. 
> 
> I don’t know what you need, a platform to speak out, self-defense classes, someone to listen or the chance to be alone in a room with them so you can return the violence they gave you. Tell me whatever it is. I’ll do what I can to make it happen.

There were six girls at his house and none of them were working on the posters that they’d come to work on. Jenna was sitting on the arm chair that Malik had slept in, Ebony was sitting on the floor, Stephanie was sitting against his side, Mary had her hand pressed against her mouth while she sat on one of the dining room chairs, Clara was next to Ebony frowning with such intensity that it looked like her forehead had to be _aching_ from the effort but it was quiet-quiet Becky that was standing at the back. Becky that was stomping back and forth.

“What makes them think they can do something like this?” she demanded. “What makes them—did you call the cops? Are they going to jail?”

“I’m sorry,” Jenna said in a low whisper. “I didn’t know—I mean I knew that Scott was a jerk but I didn’t think…”

Stephanie didn’t say anything as she held his hand and kept her quiet. The plan to go out on a date had been utterly scrapped the moment he had hobbled down the stairs from his poor attempt at getting clean to find the six of them already sitting in his living room. 

“Jenna,” Kadar said. 

“It’s not your fault,” Becky cut him off. “It’s Scott’s fault. Are you going to call the cops?”

“No,” Kadar said, “look it’s okay, it’s being taken care of. But we really need to work on these posters. Do you guys remember a couple of years ago when Altair came to the prom?” The stares that he got were varying degrees of disbelief at his attempts to change the subject and latent rage at not being able to go find Scott and murder him. “I got a hold of him and he sent me a bunch of pictures of him wearing the shirt.” Some of them where he was wearing a skirt, because Altair seemed to have a thing for wearing skirts. 

“Right, so we’ll get to that right after we talk about how we’re going to send a message about this,” Ebony said. “I’m calling the other girls.”

“No,” Kadar said, and he was nearly attacked by all six girls (including his girlfriend) who drew in a nearly simultaneous breath to start explaining to him about how they weren’t going to be deterred. He said, “we need to do the posters first. So we can get them printed. Please?”

“Fine,” Ebony said. 

The five of them that were there to work on the posters went into the living room to work on the poster. He had sent the zip file to Ebony (who was the director of the art division) along with the zip of all of Leonardo’s original designs and drawings for the shirts. It took them a minute to get the pictures open and then they erupted into a cloud of noise that was full of disbelief and applause for the fact that Altair had taken a dozen pictures wearing skirt that half an inch too short (he’d even kept his hand down around the hem of it so you could see it was just shy of too short for his fingertips). 

Stephanie whispered, “hey,” to him with her fingers still threaded through his. “Why didn’t you call me?”

Kadar looked at her slim, white fingers through his thicker, darker ones and shrugged. “I didn’t call anyone,” he said. “They found me.”

She kissed him on the cheek and rested her head against his shoulder. “Is this okay? Am I hurting you?” 

“No,” he said. “Hey, we could order a pizza? We probably can’t manage a movie with them talking in there but we could play cards or something? It’s not exactly what—” Kadar was going to say more but Stephanie interrupted him by lifting her head to smile at him. “What?” he asked.

“We could go to your room,” she whispered. “And watch a movie on your bed.”

Well that was a dangerous line of thought. If his body wasn’t heavy from almost-narcotic pain killers and bruised it might have made a more pressing effort to inform him of how wholly in agreement he was with that plan. “We could,” he said. Which was about the same thing as agreeing. They weren’t sneaky at all (and Kadar wasn’t supposed to go up the stairs by himself). Malik was drawn out of the kitchen by the hysteria and the sheer amount of time that the name ‘Altair’ was being thrown around. He paused in the dining room to stare at the screen when the girls asked if he wanted to see something _amazing_. The look on his face was a terrible attempt to remain unimpressed but amused. 

Then he came to help Stephanie carry his pillows back upstairs. He paused with Kadar in the doorway of his room, head ducked low like they were talking about the severity of temptation (as if, Malik was probably rooting against chastity given his track record). “Why is he wearing a skirt? Why? Those posters are going to be in your school?”

“Yes,” Kadar whispered back. “Everyone’s going to know what your boyfriend’s pretty thighs look like, Malik.” Then he slapped him on the back of the shoulder. “Don’t sprain your good arm masturbating.” 

\--

MariaThrope: have you decided your vote yet, @son-of-no-one? (10m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I’m rereading to be sure I like it best. @Sass-Badger hasn’t put a vote in yet either. (9m ago)

Sass-badger: @son-of-no-one, you have one day left. Don’t deflect the question with lies. We need to know which one you chose. (6m ago)

Altair dragged Desmond to the gym with him the way he had in the beginning when the thought of going to the gym was the worst thing he could think of. Desmond had intended to work out himself (since he’d been woken up and all but bodily dragged to the gym) but his intentions were slowly dropped to the side in favor of watching Altair.

“Something you want to talk about?” he asked after Altair finish with the weights. His cousin had been thin since he turned fourteen and his body started to digest itself (or so it seemed) but he’d managed to add meat back to his body with the muscle he’d built in the past few years. It had taken dedication (and a shift to his eating habits) to attain that sort of definition but what he was doing now wasn’t a concentrated effort to maintain his body. “Or were you just going to keep going with the effort to kill yourself?”

“I’m fine,” Altair said despite the fact it was an obvious, terrible lie.

Desmond sighed. “If you were going to start lying, I think you should start with something manageable. ‘You look great today, Desmond’, ‘I really liked that omelet you made me, Lucy’, ‘Maria and I have sex all the time’.” He had his hands on his hips when Altair turned half around to shake his head at him. If it weren’t for the grin tugging at the grim slant of his pressed-together lips, Desmond might have thought he’d said the wrong thing. Every part of Altair’s body was taut with tension like he was ready to snap at even the slightest provocation. “Talking helps,” Desmond said.

“Someone hurt Sass’ brother.”

“Oh,” well that could mean anything really. “How? I mean, what happened?”

“Bullies at school, I guess. They knocked him down and kicked him. The lawyer said that he’s pretty bruised up and he has a mild sprain on his knee but it should heal without complication.”

“Lawyer,” Desmond repeated. He wondered what had happened that these things existed and were dealt with in Altair’s life without him knowing about them. On one hand, it was what he had wanted when he walked away in Italy and on the other, it was an unprecedented event. “Did they call the police?”

“No,” Altair said. “Sass called the lawyer. Look—it doesn’t matter what happens to the assholes that hurt him. The brother is—he’s—I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know what to do for him and he keeps sending me messages. I want to make it better for him but fuck,” Altair spread his hand out to the side like something exploding. The word was loud over the distant drone of other overly-rich types working out. Someone must have coughed an objection to the word but Altair was shrugging. “Look at me. People fixed things for me my whole life and I don’t even know what to say to a seventeen year old kid that just got beat up.”

Well that was vastly more mature than Desmond was expecting. He stepped up and put his hands on Altair’s shoulders. “Be honest. Let him talk. Don’t tell him how to feel. That’s my advice. And don’t do this,” he motioned at Altair’s everything, “and hurt yourself.”

“No I’m doing this,” Altair motioned, “because it’s this or hitting something and I’m trying to give up violence as a coping mechanism.”

“Don’t do this and hurt yourself,” Desmond said again. “Otherwise it’s the same thing as punching a wall.” The level of aggravation in Altair’s body eased enough to leech away some of the worry Desmond felt. He stepped away again. “You figure out what story won that contest? Lucy keeps asking like I know how to read your mind.”

“I don’t know. Maria picked one and Sass picked one and now I have to pick which one of those two I like and I don’t like either.” Altair huffed standing there. “So it’s basically picking between them and Maria is—you know and Sass is…”

Desmond snorted. “I’d tell you to side with the one you’re having sex with except that wouldn’t help you in this instance. So pick the better story. It doesn’t matter which one chose it. One of the stories has to be better.”

“Ha,” Altair said. “Fine. If you want me to do it the honorable way.”

\--

> ### The Winner of The First (and only) Saltair Fanfiction Contest is…
> 
> Chicken Noodle Soup by Komma. Your story will be read during a livestream tomorrow at noon EST, to find out what that is in your time zone click here. 
> 
> Thank you to everyone that submitted stories to our contest. It was truly a unique experience to see so many different interpretations on the same idea.

Kadar did not want to be driven to school and he didn’t want to be picked up from school either and yet Mother absolutely refused to give on her resolve to do both. 

“Your knee is more important than your pride,” she said after he tried complaining his way out of it. That was final. But his pride wasn’t the reason that she was looking at him the way she was when he got out of their little car and got the crutches fixed under his arms. Pride wasn’t the look of uncertainty that bit at her lip. 

“Be careful,” Mother said. “Call if you need anything.”

Kadar promised her that he would. He didn’t make it more than six steps toward the front door before he was suddenly flanked by a mass of bodies. Jenna was on his left with a quirked-up-eyebrow and Becky was on his right with potent rage in her face. “Hi?” he said. There were more people on either side of him than he could name (well he could have, but he couldn’t see them all). “What’s going on?”

“I told you,” Becky said. “We weren’t just going to let this happen.”

They moved like a herd, a great mass of bodies all around his hideous hobbling as they went up the steps to the school building. Every door had to be opened to admit the full width of his full guard and once they were inside, they started pulling off their coats and hats. They were wearing button-down white shirts (every single one of them) with the protest shirts over top. The sleeves of their shirts all read ‘I’d Rather Date Kadar’ or ‘Kadar is a real man’ or some variation on the same theme. Becky’s said ‘I stand by Kadar’ and that was one of the least volatile. 

“Wow,” he said. The whole of the group blocked any movement from the first and second hall and drew the attention of teachers that were peeking out of their classrooms. “This wasn’t—you didn’t need to—this really won’t help the thing where—”

“We’re not leaving you,” Jenna said. “We’re not going to act like it didn’t happen. You stood up for me and I am not going to do any less for you.” There was a general chorus of agreement. “I don’t care if it takes the rest of the year, we aren’t leaving you until Scott Simmons and Tom Whatever-the-hell is out of school.” 

Becky nodded, “all of our parents called.”

Kadar wanted to tell them it would be the shortest lived (but most likely, most successful) stand they ever took about anything. He didn’t know exactly what Altair’s lawyers were going to do but the general feeling that he’d gotten was that it would be swift and merciless. Still he nodded at them (because he thought he might cry if he tried to talk). “Ok,” he did manage to say. 

“Ladies,” one of the teachers was saying, “time to move along.” 

The group split, half went with him to his locker, half went to class. They followed him around the whole of the day, passing him from one group to the next. When he had to go to the bathroom they ducked inside to check for occupants and then stood guard outside. 

At the end of the day, the group was down to Stephanie (wearing a shirt with the sleeves that said just said Kadar with hearts around it) and Jenna that walked him out to his Mother’s car. 

“What was that?” Mother asked.

“Uh, my body guards?” Kadar said. He told her about the whole of his day and how his small group had swelled in numbers again. “I didn’t even see Scott today.” He wasn’t even sure if that was because Scott wasn’t in the school or if it was because the girls had made sure he wasn’t given the opportunity to get close. 

“Good,” Mother said. “The school called me to ask about you. They said that they received a number of concerned phone calls about the incident and asked what had happened, where it had happened and why I had not reported it. I had the unique experience of telling them that my lawyer would be in touch with them about those details. Your brother was very pleased about it.”

“Do you know what’s happening?” Kadar asked.

“No,” Mother said. She pulled out onto the street before she continued, “and if your brother knows, he is not sharing the details. What is most important now is that you are safe and that you are well.”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “I only have school one more day this week. I’ll be fine.”

Mother did not bother to tell him that was not what she meant but it was implied in the side-glance she spared him. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Sorry I scared you
> 
> I was beginning to think that you’d never wake up.
> 
> Malik did tell me
> 
> It’s okay. You don’t have to justify anything to me.
> 
> I hope you are well.
> 
> You and everyone else

Kadar was up at one in the morning but everyone else was supposed to be asleep. It was wishful thinking that he’d make it all the way to the kitchen without having someone come discover him. He was sneaking cookies (a rare treat) from the pantry when Malik came into the kitchen on bare-shuffling feet looking annoyed and sleep-deprived. 

“Why are you up?” Malik asked.

“Cookies,” Kadar said. He was up because his head was full of half-answered questions. His leg hurt and his back hurt (but not as much anymore). He couldn’t curl on his side with the brace on his leg and absent anything else that made him comfortable (or medicine that knocked him unconscious) he couldn’t forget the things circling his head. “Why are you?”

Malik’s expression called him a moron. Then he went to the fridge to pull out the milk and set it on the table before fetching two of the short glasses out of the cupboard. He sat on his favored side of the table and waited for Kadar to bring the crinkly package of cookies over to share between them. “Want to talk about it?” Malik asked.

“Nope,” Kadar said. 

Silence dragged a minute while Malik concentrated on pouring the milk but once he set it down again his sour face was frowning over Kadar’s silence. “Are you talking to someone?” he asked.

“Sort of,” Kadar answered. “So they’re going to put up the posters of your boyfriend at school tomorrow. They printed flyers too that they’re going to put wherever they go, I guess. I think Gail said she was going to try to get other schools in on the campaign.”

“Did they pick the one where he’s got the skirt on?” Malik asked. 

“They used it on some of the posters but not all of them. The fear was that it was too—inflammatory? Objectionable? That they would have to take it down if they put that one up so they just printed a few of them. I could get one for your room if you want.” It was a sad attempt at a joke but Malik gave him the finger anyway. “Do you actually find that—attractive? I know I tease you but is it a thing that actually interests you?”

“It’s—” Malik’s face scrunched up like he was trying to work out how to phrase his answer. “I like how vulnerable it makes him look. He’s a dick most of the time. Most of his poses and photographs are very aggressive or hostile. In a fluffy skirt with his hand on his thigh, he’s—unarmed. It’s not the clothes, it’s the way they change everything about the photograph.”

That was more thought than Kadar had ever put into it before. He sighed. “Did he tell you what’s happening with Scott? I asked him but he said he wasn’t _intimately involved_ with the details.”

“No,” Malik said. “I imagine if he was going to tell me that he’d also tell you. But it’s probably a better idea to just call Tony yourself and find out what’s happening. Altair probably doesn’t know.” He dunked his cookie into the milk and held it under like it was a man he could drown. 

“What do you think they’re doing?”

The little gust of breath that wasn’t-a-laugh (but it should have been) was the cruelest noise he had ever heard his brother make. The unhappy twist of his mouth was an acknowledgement to some internal idea. But when he looked up saturating his cookie with milk, he only shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m not sure I want to know the details. Now, I can imagine anything is possible. But if I know, then it’s finished and have no way to work through this anger I don’t want to keep.”

“What do you want to happen?” 

“I want,” Malik’s cookie broke and fell in a pile of slushy cookie bits on the table. He licked what hadn’t fallen off his hand and then pulled one of the napkins off the stack on the side of the table. “I want for this not to have happened at all. If I can’t have that, I want the lasting repercussions of what they did to ruin them. I want them to wake up every morning thinking they have gotten what they deserved.”

There was no happiness in vengeance. Kadar could have spent a lifetime trying to convince Malik of that. “If you had been awake to tell the lawyer what to do with the man that hit your car, what would you have told him?”

Malik finished wiping the cookie up as his face went carefully, cautiously, _completely_ blank. His eyelashes were down against his cheeks as he stared at the damp spot on the table but he did look up at Kadar before he spoke. “It’s for the best that I wasn’t,” Malik said. “I know now that my life is not ruined. I get by. I do well, sometimes. I don’t always wake up angry anymore. But my life would have been _easier_ if I had both my arms. Why don’t I? Because a frantic man ran a red light to get to his dying wife? Because I was behaving irresponsibly? Because an act of god made it happen? No such reason. I don’t have my arm or my spleen, because some man ran a red light because he didn’t want to be mocked for being late to a party. If I had been awake—” His teeth clenched and his hand curled up into a fist and then it released again.

“They weren’t the first people to call me names, Malik. Not even the first ones to push me. Violence isn’t going to change things for me. Revenge won’t make _me_ feel better. I didn’t do anything to these people, I have _consciously_ , _consistently_ , kept things from happening to these people.” Because retribution did not bring about change but more damage. Kadar had harbored the thought that he’d _outgrow_ the names he was called and the boys that pushed him the way he’d _outgrown_ his clothes. But it came in cycles, as long as he could remember, a quiet lull between outbursts of the same (repetitive) slurs and actions. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t know,” Malik said. “I should have known.”

Kadar shrugged. “It’s never been like this. This is new.”

“Are you going to sleep?” Malik asked. “I can go get your pillows for the couch. You have to sleep if you’re going to school tomorrow.” 

“Sure,” Kadar said because it was easier than turning the offer down. Malik went to get the pillows and Kadar ate his cookies until his stomach objected to the sugar. He left the mess for Malik to clean up (because he was nice) and hobbled out to lay in the nest of pillows. He hadn’t asked (or expected) Malik to sit in the big arm chair next to the couch but he couldn’t bring himself to be annoyed about it either.

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I can’t even tell if you’re serious. I won’t fight you if you want to wear the dress. I just thought that if you were going to wear one it’d be more like [This](https://40.media.tumblr.com/70dafbaed8750f7982fbd2c7a5ac280a/tumblr_nrrn44yykg1ra6cdio1_540.jpg). I’ll agree to your terms as long as your best man also wears a dress and my bridesmaid gets a tux. 
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  Liar. It’s three fifty, that’s almost four. I decided that when we get married—and we have to get married now because all the fanfictions say that we will—that I get to wear the dress. I obviously don’t know what you look like in a white gown but after going shopping in the women’s section more than once I feel I am overly qualified for this portion. So I think that I’ll wear something [this](https://40.media.tumblr.com/c62fb3cf5a38388e6133c7b3fdf72920/tumblr_nrrn44yykg1ra6cdio2_400.jpg). You can wear a tuxedo. I will accept no objections to this plan, Sass. Its set in stone. To love me is to understand I want to get married in this dress.
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  It’s three in the morning, I have to be at work in five hours, I’m watching my kid brother sleep. Tell me something. Really anything good.

Malik had fallen asleep waiting for a reply from Altair and woke up with a stiff neck, an aching shoulder and a pinch in his back from being slouched in the chair. His phone was critically low of battery so he took it up to his room to plug it in and fell asleep again (since he had about an hour) face down on his bed. 

Mother woke him up abruptly after he slept through his alarm and Malik had to help Kadar wash his hair in the sink before he hobbled out the door for school. Then he rushed through his own shower and breakfast and clothes before he had the time to look at his phone again. There was a message from Altair that said:

>   
>  _1 file attached_  
>  It’s a deal, Sass.  
> 

And the file attached to it was a quick sketchy drawing of Altair in the short-skirted-dress that Malik had sent to him. The boxy set of his shoulders was exaggerated in the drawing so that it looked possibly more ridiculous than it would in real life. “You’re an idiot,” Malik said to the picture before Mother honking outside made him grab his tie and run for the door.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  The time that stayed with me the longest, was James Henrico. He got all the boys in my class to knock me down on the field. The teacher was there but he didn’t stop them. I don’t know why. And then James had to take me to the nurses office and he pushed me into a door and called me a sissy faggot because I kissed this boy I thought was my friend. I was eleven.
> 
> How are you doing?
> 
> _K wrote_ :  
>  What did they do? The kids that bullied you?

At lunch, Stephanie sat at his right and Jenna sat at his left at the round table in the top corner of the cafeteria. There were five other seats all taken by members of the protest team wearing their long-white-sleeves and their bright-colored-shirts. 

“I heard that Scott Simmons got kicked out,” Becky said. “My Mom called again yesterday and the principal said that ‘proceedings had been started’ to expel him from the school. So _that’s_ been taken care of.” 

“I didn’t think it would be that easy,” Stephanie said. 

Kadar shrugged. “Did everyone’s parents call? Adults always listen to other adults instead of us.” But more importantly, “if he’s really gone, you guys don’t have to follow me to the bathroom anymore.”

“You’re not getting rid of us that easy,” Ebony said. 

“We stick together,” Stephanie said. She was new to the protest movement; always supportive but only now involved. “That’s how people change things. They stick together. If we don’t then we’re a bunch of disruptive kids but together we’re a powerful force. You are one of us and we stick together.”

There was a chorus of agreement around the table. Kadar sighed. “Fine, but you have to stop going into the men’s room. That’s going to get someone suspended.” They didn’t seem too impressed with that idea but they agreed to it with begrudging nods. “So, how are we doing with hanging posters and distributing fliers?”

They fell into telling him about the developments he missed while Stephanie slipped her fingers between his and squeezed. 

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t have pity for them or for the people that raised them. 
> 
> Thank you, it hasn’t been said enough. 
> 
> _Altair wrote:_  
>  I imagine by now, they have been expelled from school, their parents have been terminated from or otherwise suffered demotions at their jobs, their house is in danger of foreclosure either through the pending civil suits or some other means and any worthwhile universities that the boys have applied to have issued them rejection letters. I don’t know because I have not asked. In my experience, the lawyers that have come to handle this problem, do not stop until they have taken everything. Don’t have too much pity for them. They most likely aren’t sorry for what they’ve done yet. It most likely hasn’t occurred to them why they’ve run into this bad luck. Eventually, they’ll understand why this happened, that it is because of what they did but they probably won’t be sorry about it. They’ll blame everyone else.
> 
> _S. Badger wrote_ :  
>  What happened to the boys? My brother said they aren’t at that school anymore.

But then there was also:

> FROM: K [Notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> You really took that one to heart, man. I don’t mean to make light of the situation and I obviously don’t know the whole story of your life, but I hope that in fifteen years I’m not just now getting over some white-jock-asshole knocking me down and telling me I’m not a real American. 
> 
> The thing is, I don’t like being pushed around. I don’t like being called names. But it happens. It doesn’t just happen to me. I made the choice not to fight back before. I decided it wasn’t worth it to start a fight that would only escalate so I didn’t. I don’t like watching other people get pushed around either so I fight for them. I fight to make sure they don’t feel like they deserved it, or that this is what they should expect in their lives. Nobody should feel like the mistreatment they experience is something that _just happens_ and _nothing can be done_. 
> 
> Me? I’m hurt. I’m not mad. I’m embarrassed but I’m not ashamed. And now I’ve got an army of friends, these girls I’ve been fighting for, that follow me around school wearing my name on their shirts. I’ve got my family nagging me every hour of the day about if I’m okay and sitting in the chair next to the couch so I’ll fall asleep.
> 
> And I’ve got you. Not the money, not the lawyers, not the other bullshit that comes with it. But you who is rich and powerful, who has _everything_ and still got pushed on his ass by bigger kids and called names. So I am right, I’m not special. This happens to everyone. But it shouldn’t. And I’m going to spend my life figuring out how to make it stop.
> 
> So yeah, I’m fine. Better than fine, I got invited to my girlfriend’s Thanksgiving dinner and they are making two turkeys.
> 
> Thanks. Good luck with Sass if you’re still trying. Or even if you’re not. Sass kind of sticks to you, there’s no escape.

Thanksgiving was hosted at Altair’s where the assortment of failed pies were spread across the counters. They made a turkey and mashed potatoes and a variety of side dishes that would ultimately be left half-eaten in his fridge until someone threw them away. 

Lucy raised her beer (at the end, when the turkey was in shreds on her plate and she was talking about how she needed sweat pants) and said, “I am thankful I am not pregnant and that I am still _here_ one year later with you two deeply awful men.”

“Thanks,” Altair said. He tapped his beer against hers and Desmond’s and they all took a drink to her toast. 

Then it was Desmond licking the mashed potatoes out from between his teeth and cheek while he considered his options. “I am thankful that I am off anti-depressants again. I am thankful that my family is here and that the things that were in need of resolution last November have been resolved.”

They drank to that and Lucy leaned in to kiss Desmond. Then they were looking at him across the table from him. One of his arms was loosely sprawled over the back of the empty chair next to him and he was lazily thinking about what he was thankful for. He turned his beer bottle on the table a few times while he thought about it.

“You’re ruining the moment,” Lucy announced after a minute of silence.

Altair smirked at her and picked up his bottle. “I am thankful for the things I learned this year. I am thankful for you, for my family that is here with me and for the family that isn’t here yet.” He lifted his bottle and they all tapped them together. He took a drink while Lucy eyed him with narrow eyes and Desmond looked confused-but-neutral. 

“Like, _isn’t here yet_ , but will be when you dump Maria and go after the one you actually love?” Lucy said. “Because I would be down for accepting that as a Christmas present.”

“I can’t dump her until the Oscars,” Altair said. “My rule, not hers. So you’ll have to survive until February.”

“Really?” Lucy said. “Like, you’re serious? You’re going to dump her and convince Sass to actually meet? If this is a joke I will kick you in the balls.” Lucy was all grins when Altair nodded at her. “Finally!” she shouted. “Just don’t do something stupid. All of those stories you read are a how- _not_ -to, okay? Be better than the fictional representation of yourself.” Then she nodded.

“I’ll try,” Altair said. “Weren’t we going to watch movies or something?”

“Yes,” Desmond said. “Saw? I think it was Saw. Gruesome horror is what the two of you decided on. You know, something cheerful and classic.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> How’s dinner going?
> 
> I’m so scared of her parents I can’t eat
> 
> That’s a lie. We’re sitting in the ‘all weather room’ in the back with the other kids and I’ve eaten everything.
> 
> Except the stuff with bacon.
> 
> But I think I know what it tastes like now because she ate the bacon and then I kissed her
> 
> I think that still counts against you
> 
> Shut up. It was a taste.
> 
> Just stop eating before you reach the point where you have to be rolled home
> 
> There’s still half a turkey left. I’m fine.

Malik took the last book out of the stack Sofia had sent him down to the living room. Mother was sitting in her chair reading her own novel; she only looked up for a moment to see him when he came into the room. A smile crossed her face as she nodded her head to show she’d seen him. 

He sat on the couch and she sat in the chair and they both read their books.


	55. Chapter 55

Son-of-No-One: @Sass-Badger, next Fun Fact Friday will be a holiday edition. Brush up on your useless Christmas-themed knowledge about me. (20m ago)

Sass-Badger: I will only agree to this if all questions you ask me are titles or lyrics from Christmas songs (18m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @sass-badger. Deal. See you on the 5th of December. (17m ago)

Federico was ‘in town’ for ‘a few days’ and invited everyone (including Lucy who was less thrilled any anyone) out to breakfast. It was a lavishly expensive place that required the patrons to wear lavishly expensive clothes (or at least look like they did). Altair argued with Lucy for an hour and twenty minutes about how they should just _go buy a new dress_ or something for her to wear before she screamed at him about _being such a fucking dick, fine let’s just go do it_.

Now they were all sitting at the table together. Altair in between Federico (who never seemed to like him) and Lucy (who actively hated him at the moment) while Desmond smiled understandingly at Federico expressing general thanks and surprise that they’d all managed to gather.

Then they were simply quiet.

“How’s Vincenzio?” Desmond asked. He seemed aware of the terrible attempt it was to start a conversation even as he said it. “He’s a year old now?”

“Yes,” Federico said. He was not usually in a suit (more often in some relaxed sort of clothing that seemed to infuriate his brother who went out of his way to constantly look as if he could walk a runway with no notice). “He’s walking and screaming. He isn’t talking yet but Mother thinks it’s because we are teaching him Italian and English together.”

“I heard its normal for bilingual children to talk later than other children,” Desmond said.

“Unless you’re that one,” Federico said. He pointed a thumb at Altair who looked up from fiddling with the table setting and ignoring the way Lucy was all but grating her teeth at him. Federico had taken note of Lucy’s fury (with a raised eyebrow and a strategic placement of bodies between him and her) but hadn’t commented on it. “You were talking in full sentences before you were two. English and—what did your Dad speak?”

“Arabic,” Altair said. “And Kurdish, I think.”

“Arabic,” Federico agreed. 

The silence that followed was as heavy and unpleasant as the first one. Desmond was frowning like flinching at his plate while Lucy looked to the side with her teeth clenched so tightly it made the muscle in her jaw stand out prominently.

Federico took a drink of water like he was hoping it’d be vodka. Then he set the cup down. There was a curious shift to his face the moment he realized nothing could be salvaged from the attempt at polite interaction and thus he turned (in his chair) and looked at Altair. “So my sister has decided that the artist my brother’s been fucking should design us a set of tattoos to commemorate Petruccio. Since, Ezio is dicking him and Claudia wishes she was getting dick from him, I thought I would ask if you object to this? I do not know what your complaint with him is but if it is serious I will refuse to participate.”

Lucy scoffed before Altair could speak. “He can say dick and fucking but I can’t wear a dress out of my closet?”

“For the last time,” Altair said.

“No you couldn’t have,” Federico said. “I shouldn’t use that language either but until someone with more money than I—or really, _him_ ,” he motioned at Altair, “takes offense to the words I’m safe.”

“Or Mama Maria shows up,” Desmond added. “Ezio is _still_ having sex with Leonardo? I thought that was just a one time thing.”

“Apparently it’s transcendent,” Federico said. He shrugged his shoulders as if little brother’s and their sudden love for artistic cock was so easy to ignore. His grin was directed at Altair (though) because regardless of the situation, he couldn’t help but poke him. “Seems that you’ll have a hard time doing better than ‘transcendent’ if you ever get the chance to impress your internet lover.”

“I don’t care if he designs tattoos for you,” Altair said.

“Transcendent how?” Lucy asked.

“Thorough,” Altair said. “I was high at the time but I remember Ezio said he was thorough.”

“Gentle,” Federico added.

“But he’s still having sex with him?” Desmond asked again. “Ezio? Ezio who didn’t even realize what gay meant until he was twenty? Ezio who used to flirt wth guys and didn’t understand that they were complimenting him because they wanted in his pants? That Ezio?”

“Wait, he didn’t know what gay was until he was twenty?” Lucy asked.

“My brother is very slow,” Federico said. He was pleased about it though. “You see, in his mind, he thought that gay meant—uh, what’s the word, feminine? He figured it out eventually.” Federico waved his hand in the air like sweeping it all away. “Yes, he is still fucking the artist. Or the other way around? It is hard to tell.”

Desmond was still working through his disbelief on that matter but he must have caught the dawning joy on Lucy’s face because he stopped lifting his glass to his mouth to say, “No Lucy.”

“Heterosexuality is clearly not strong in your family,” Lucy said. “I’m not saying you need to have the sudden yearning for—”

“No Lucy,” Desmond said again.

“What?” Federico was looking back and forth between them and settled on looking at Lucy when Desmond started shaking his head. But Lucy was radiant pink with possibility and dying to say whatever foul-mouthed thing had come into her mind.

“Lucy wants to fuck Desmond in the ass with her toy dick,” Altair said. Desmond kicked him under the table and Altair kicked him back so the table-settings were rattling and Lucy was nodding at Federico like it was the best idea a woman had ever had. 

The waiter was heading back over (possibly just to tell them to stop acting like children) so Desmond sat up straight (and stopped kicking him) and tugged at his shirt to look presentable again. Lucy took her elbows off the table and Altair leaned down enough to rub his shin where it was smarting.

“You should do it,” Federico said to Desmond. “Start small,” he advised. 

Desmond’s entire face went completely red and he covered his burning cheeks with his hands as he stared down at his plate like he couldn’t understand the people he was with. Lucy gloated with a soft touch of reassuring fingers on her shoulder. “I can’t believe you, any of you.”

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> It seems that I’ve been invited to your house at the end of December.
> 
> Oh shit
> 
> I was supposed to ask you
> 
> It’s strange to be invited to YOUR house by someone else.
> 
> I’m not sure how I feel about Leonardo
> 
> Because he keeps gloating?
> 
> Yes. Mostly.
> 
> I would love to come meet your family. I just need you to give me a better idea what I should not do while I’m there.
> 
> Walk around naked. Talk about sex in front of my Mother. Curse
> 
> So the usual? Good to know.

“Explain to me why we are here?” Kadar asked. In all the history of their lives (that one birthday where Kadar cried about wanting to ride a carousel included) they had only left the well-known boundaries of their own city to drive the two and a half hours to the big mall in Mason approximately six times. Most of those times had been to appease Kadar (and his need for pretty things to look at) but once had been because Malik needed some kind of suit that couldn’t be found anywhere else. “I know that you told Mom we were going to go look for something for my girlfriend because _I_ wanted to but what’s the actual reason.”

“You do want to.” Malik was looking at the huge mall directory that greeted them at the door. “You told _me_ that you wanted to.”

“Fully expecting that you’d tell me to find somewhere in the city to buy her a stuffed animal like you always have,” Kadar said. “Which is why I’m not convinced that we are here because of me. Come on, tell me why we are here.”

Malik turned away from studying the map to glare at him. “I just wanted to,” Malik said. “Where do you want to look for something for your girlfriend?”

“I don’t know, where is somewhere that sells pretty things that girls like?” Kadar didn’t expect Malik to have an answer for that but he listed six-or-seven different shops that would work as possible starting points. For the sake of convenience, they started with the closest one (that seemed to exclusively sell stuffed animals and nothing else).

They worked their way through three stores before collapsing in the food court to regroup. Kadar’s knee was aching-like-burning and Malik was rubbing his shoulder through his heavy jacket in that way he did whenever he was overly self-conscious about it. They were a couple of frowning fools sitting at a table for two looking at the overwhelming number of food options around them. 

“You know that store on Ceder?” Kadar said. “I could probably get her something from that. It has cute stuff that’s vaguely romantic but not like overwhelmingly so.”

“You could,” Malik said.

Kadar nodded. “Well, now that we’ve taken care of me, what are you here for?” While Malik wasn’t actually assessing the food establishments around them for potential, Kadar was starving and trying to pick out which brand of delicious smell he wanted to follow back to the source. While he was turning his head, Malik was glaring at him. “Ok, what about if you buy me food and then leave me here? I can eat while you shop privately for whatever it is you’re going to buy for Altair but pretend like you didn’t.”

“Or I could leave you here to starve,” Malik said. “What do you want? Stay sitting. I’ll bring it back to you.” He was standing before Kadar even managed to tell him what he wanted. “Chinese or Italian?”

“Both? Italian—both,” Kadar said. And he watched his brother wait in line at both places before coming back with a tray heaped with food (balanced on one hand like a good waiter) to drop in front of him. “You’re my favorite,” Kadar said.

“Shut up, eat. Don’t leave.” Then Malik walked off into the stream of people leaving the food court to head back toward the shops. 

\--

>   
>  [Livestream starts to jingling bells, Altair is sitting on his couch wearing a green sweater with a large snowman on it. There is a red scarf around the snowman’s neck that dangles down his chest.]
> 
> Altair: I don’t want to hear one thing about my sweater. It is December fifth and it’s a fun fact Friday. If Sass hasn’t died laughing at me we’re going to do some question and answers. [Altair looks at his phone and grins.] Ok, Sass is alive. The first questions is— [Altair picks up bells to ring them. Pulls a card off the stack at his side.] What color was my first Christmas stocking?
> 
> Altair: I guarantee that if Sass gets this one, it’s pure luck. [Phone chimes, Altair looks at it.] Red? Yes. It was red. It was red corduroy, actually. Next question! _How big is my Christmas tree_? [Altair winks at the camera before looking at his phone. When it chimes, he laughs as his face goes red before he tips his head back to laugh.] Oh shit. Sass says, its hard to guess from pictures. Some people would say ten feet but it’s probably more like three. Ok, so. I’m just over six foot. [Altair stands up, grabs the computer and turns it around to face the small tree in the corner of his living room. He goes to stand next to it, the tip of it stops at his ribs.] Maybe it’s just feeling shy, it’ll get bigger the closer to Christmas it gets, I promise.
> 
> Altair: [comes back to sit down again.] I’m going to give you that one. But next question. How many Christmas songs do I know all the words to? [Altair straightens the cards that were knocked over when he stood up while waiting for an answer.] Sass says, the only way we would know that is if you sang all of them in a row. It’s a trick question. That’s not an answer. You lose. So—
> 
> Altair: How does it start? I do know a lot of Christmas songs, but this one I can’t remember the beginning but I know it’s, _they fire is slowly dying, but my dear we’re still good-bye-ing, as long as you love me so, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow?_. Does it snow where you are, Sass? Do you like the snow?

Desmond was sitting in the chair across the room, watching Altair work the camera (for a kid that couldn’t act, he certainly knew how to use his face and body to get what he wanted). His coffee had gone cold in his hands while he held it and watched the show unfold. 

The confusing lie was that Altair knew every word to every Christmas song that the cousins had ever sang. He knew them in a few languages. Specifically, when he was sixteen he had gotten into a screaming match with Claudia over the words of Let It Snow since Claudia sang the wrong words almost every time. Altair was enraged that she could mess up a simple song and Claudia was furious that she was wrong.

The thought kept him company all through to the end, when Altair sang Jingle Bells as he turned off the livestream and then collapsed back onto the couch. 

“When we finally kiss good night,” Desmond said, “oh how I’ll hate going out in the storm. But as long as you hold me tight, all the way home I’ll be warm.” He sang the words by the end and motioned outward with the hand holding his coffee cup. “Even I know that one.”

“Yeah well,” Altair said. He picked up the cards and dropped them on the keyboard of his laptop. “Everyone knows that one, don’t they? When are you going to Lucy’s parent’s house?”

“The twenty second,” Desmond said. “We’ll be back the twenty seventh. Are we going to see Grandma for your birthday?” He tried drink his coffee but it was cold and disgusting so he just went back to holding it. 

“Of course,” Altair said. There was the expression on his face as he looked at the computer like he wanted to say something. It was stuck in his mouth while he leaned his head to the side but he didn’t seem to have the ability to get the words past his teeth. Instead he just sighed again. “We going to the gym now?”

“Sure,” Desmond said. “Need to get new coffee on the way back though.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> So I’ve been in school for 12 years now
> 
> they have done this candy-gram thing where you send candy-canes to your friends for 6 years
> 
> You sent me one anonymously that one time
> 
> that’s it
> 
> And it was a dollar for a candy cane.
> 
> I have, in my bookbag right this minute, fifty two candy canes
> 
> The student council needs to give me a star
> 
> That’s fifty two dollars for their prom fund
> 
> I don’t think you’re mature enough for this level of attention
> 
> I just gave a candy cane to this guy that didn’t have any. I AM A BENEVOLENT CANDY GOD

It was December ninth and there was snow drifting down in fluffy little flakes. The very few appointments that had come into the office that morning were all buzzing with excitement over Christmas decorations and the snow. Malik had been obliged to watch Frosty the Snowman enough while he was in Elementary school that he had a basic understanding of how snow was nearly synonymous with Christmas magic. (Of course he’d also seen that other movie where the people in the town tried to get rid of the snow because they were sick of shoveling it and falling over on it and in general being defeated by snow.)

Malik had no real problem with Christmas. It had existed in periphery to him as long as he’d been living in the state. He had friends who invited him to their Christmas parties and like every kid in the world, he’d made his share of stockings and candy canes and reindeers at school. He didn’t mind shopping for gifts to give his friends that believed in the winter holidays. 

The happy wreaths that hung on the street lights didn’t bug him.

None of it really bothered him, even if it didn’t necessarily involve him. Yet, he still felt acutely ridiculous walking to the post office in the snow humming _Let it Snow_ under his breath. (He was fairly sure that had been the intent when Altair sang it to him.) He had already wrapped the gift he was sending and put it in a water-resistant bubble-wrapped lined envelope to send. Rather than print out a ‘hand written note’ (using the handwriting font that Leonardo had made him a few years ago) he filled out the Christmas card himself and wrapped it inside of the gift so he couldn’t chicken out and change his mind at the last minute.

The line at the post office was minimal when he arrived but the postal worker that greeted him at the tall counter still looked hassled. She quirked an eyebrow at him like she was trying to reason out what he was sending in the mail.

“Christmas gift,” he said.

That loosened some of the tension on her face (but not much). “Trying to beat the holiday rush?”

Possibly more like, trying to get it sent before Altair inevitably went somewhere since he seemed to have the inability to remain in one place for very long and Malik did not have a clear understand of how his mail was handled when he wasn’t at his home address. (Of course, Malik didn’t have his home address, he sent things to the lawyer and the lawyer sent things where they needed to go.) Rather than try to express this he only nodded. “Yeah.”

After paying the charge for shipping, he was back out on the snowy street with a nervous twist of energy. He shoved his hands into his pockets and tipped his face up into the quiet drift of the snow. The cold wasn’t a painful bite yet and he didn’t feel like being trapped inside of a car so he turned his feet toward home to walk. 

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> No, we pretty much accept the things that we’re given. Both of us had a lot of Christian or Jewish friends growing up. We got a lot of gifts from people that thought it was a tragedy that we didn’t get stuff. Just don’t ever send my Mother anything. You can’t win there so don’t try.
> 
> Thanksgiving was good. I ate so much I’m still full. …That’s a joke. I’m never full. 
> 
> _Altair wrote:_  
>  I am aware that Sass (and possibly you) do not celebrate a winter holiday but would sending a gift regardless of this be seen as disrespectful?
> 
> How’d Thanksgiving at your girlfriend’s house go?  
> 

“What is it you don’t like about Altair?” Kadar was sitting at the table peeling potatoes (because he had to sit, because he wasn’t allowed to stand, possibly ever again) while Mother stood at the stove seasoning the water. The pronounced silence behind him made Kadar turn to look at her.

There was not much that moved Mother to making foul faces at inanimate objects. It was reserved for things (or people) like Scott Simmons and Malik-at-sixteen mouthing off about how he was smarter than his teacher. (Oh Mother had made faces about that before lecturing him about how the teacher deserved more respect than Malik was giving him and he needed to correct his attitude.) “Why do you ask?”

Deflection was never a good response.

“I kind of like him,” Kadar said. Of course, the notion of Altair being a real-live person (somewhere out there in the world where money was no object) was still an abstract kind of idea. He’d learned more about him in the past two weeks than he had in the past two years. Aside from the fact that he had the unique ability to provoke his brother into behaving in ways never-before-seen, there seemed to be something _good_ centered in Altair. “I mean, he’s a mess. He’s done a lot of stupid things.”

Mother made an agreeing noise. “I do not know much about this man but what I do know does not make me feel he is a good choice for anyone. If you’re worried that I will attempt to make your brother’s choice for him. You do not need to worry. Malik has always had the freedom to choose.”

Kadar turned around in the chair and Mother had managed to return her face to a neutral expression. “But if you could you wouldn’t let him?”

“Even if I could, I would not stop your brother from making his own choices. Your Father and I left our home because we wanted our children to make their own choices, because _we_ wanted to make our own choices. My opinion of this man is not set in stone, Kadar. If it ever becomes relevant, I will give him a fair chance.” Then she motioned at the potatoes. “Please finish so we can make dinner.”

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> When will you be arriving?
> 
> next week
> 
> the19th
> 
> Why so early?
> 
> because I’m meeting a tattoo artist there on the twenty first
> 
> Are you getting a hotel?
> 
> I can
> 
> You should.

Altair’s mail showed up on his table every morning. In theory, he was aware of where it could be found if it did not show up there. (He was also aware of the many helpful women that made his home habitable and made sure to get them individual, personalized Christmas cards this year despite the fact that he rarely saw them in person. They were like fairies, they came while he was sleeping or out and left before he woke up or returned.) 

He was in his underwear, scratching his belly and yawning (thinking seriously about going out to find someone else to feed him rather than trying to make food himself) when he happened across the large brown envelope laying across the litter of smaller letter-sized white ones. The pile of Christmas cards was to the side in a smattering of bright-colored envelopes. He usually threw away all the cards from people that sent them out of obligation to spend eternity acknowledging his family. They were old-old friends of his Grandmother’s that had refused to cease sending him cards simply because Grandma had died. Somewhere, someone was probably dutifully mailing cards out to everyone on Grandma’s massive list. 

But the brown envelope was an aberration. It was unusual. He picked it up and checked it for a return address (no such luck) and then peeled open the end. The bubble wrap on the inside of it had been mostly deflated by travel but the contents weren’t bruised. He slid the contents out into his hand. The book felt bendable (almost floppy) when it came free. It was dark brown leather with a cord wrapped around it, he turned it over to see the front of it. There was an eagle design embossed into the front flap. On the top there was a pen and a slip of folded paper sticking out. He dropped the book on the table and untied the leather cords to open the book. The inside was full of sturdy, blank paper bound loosely into the leather. It must have been meant to be refillable or just easy to tear out.

Altair picked up the folded slip of paper and opened it. The handwriting was painfully neat, strictly perfect across the unlined piece of paper. It was a rather concise:

_I think the story of how I had to get my brother to drive me two and a half hours to a mall that I hate, walk around several stores keeping up the pretense of shopping for his girlfriend and then ultimately feed him a small army’s worth of food would amuse you more than this gift will impress you. I have long been told that it’s the thought that counts. My thought was that if you had a place to keep your art, there might not be so much of it lost to paper margins and bar napkins. It would be interesting to see what you could come up with if you had a single place to keep it all._

_Merry Christmas, Altair._

“Merry Christmas, Malik,” he said back to it. The truth was, at some point or another, his Grandma had bought him every sort of sketch book one could own. He had been given every sort of art tool there was available and none of it had ever swayed him into making a concentrated effort. His art didn’t feel useful enough to fill pages of a sketch book, and he was therefore resigned to leaving it for paper margins at boring meetings and bar napkins that would be thrown away. At first glance there was no reason to think that this book (unlike all the ones that came before) would get any use as a sketch book. 

So he couldn’t explain why he picked up the pen and pulled the kitchen chair out. The paper was crisp under his fingers, clean and untouched. There was no intent to draw anything (at all really) but he sketched a badger into the bottom corner of the first page. It was walking toward the binding, dragging its paws in the dust as it went. When he’d finished it, he wrote Malik’s name in as close an approximate (as he could remember) of the Arabic script. 

\--

> ### December 15, 2008: Holiday Hiatus.
> 
> The Sett will be on hiatus from today, December 15 until January 2nd 2009. January 2nd will be our next Fun Fact Friday. 
> 
> Thank you and have a wonderful and safe month of December.

Malik got a box in the mail on the sixteenth. Mother looked at it sitting on the table in the dining room (standing out against the piles of Kadar’s still in-progress protest) and then looked at him. Malik was debating the wisdom of carrying it upstairs to his room and never opening it. 

“Would you like me to leave the room?” Mother asked.

Well, the last time he’d gotten a gift from the bastard it had involved sex toys and while his Mother was understanding and liberal in her views, having to open a box containing sex toys might cement her eternal dislike of Altair. Malik said, “no. I’ll take it upstairs.” Which was, as he was aware, essentially the same thing as saying he wanted her to leave. The only difference was in displacing her from the public room of her home versus excusing himself to a private one. He tucked the box up under his arm (and was relieved by how it wasn’t very heavy) and motioned toward the stairs. 

Malik would have closed his door but Kadar must have heard him climbing the stairs because he invited himself in to sit on the good computer chair and watch. His impatience made him grab the scissors on Malik’s desk and cut through the tape on the sides of the box before depositing them back where they went. “I could have done it,” Malik said. 

“Yeah but I want to know what you got.” 

Aquila was drawn by the promising sound of a box being opened. Sailor was sleeping on Malik’s pillow and lazily stretched to push his paws against his back. While Sailor was far too mature a cat to be amazed by a box (of all things!), Aquila was up under Malik’s hand pulling at the flaps of it with his paws. When all four of the flaps were open, Aquila investigated the contents and was unimpressed by what he saw. 

“What is it?” Kadar asked.

It was a boxed set of the _Twilight_ books. Malik pulled them out of the box with a laugh caught between his clenched teeth. He had to tip them to get the first book to slide out while Kadar was laughing so hard the chair was squeaking. The book came out easily and opened up to show the signature across the front of it. 

The author had written, _to Sass, I heard these were your favorites_ and then signed her name. 

“I hate him,” Malik said. His entire face was red and Kadar was wheezing while he tried to catch his breath. In the bottom of the box there were two envelopes, one that had K written on it and one that had Sass on it. Malik threw Kadar’s card at him and opened the other while Aquila made himself at home inside the now empty cardboard box. 

“Oh I got a card, that’s—oh holy shit,” Kadar said and then slapped his hand over his mouth. “Malik!” he shouted around his hand. “Don’t talk like that.” But then he was left open-mouthed-gaping at whatever was inside of his card.

Malik’s was a pretty card with a little black cat playing in the snow on the front. The inside was blank except for Altair’s chaotic writing. It said:

_I had a hard time finding something I thought you’d like. Nothing that I know about you gives me any idea what sort of gift you would like and since I can’t send you an ugly Christmas sweater, I decided to send you the equivalent of it. Ugly Christmas sweaters make me smile, I hope this made you smile. I’m also giving you my Grandma’s recipe for mamuneh'ya, you should make it because it’s heaven. Happy December, Sass._

Kadar was still staring at the card with his mouth hanging open. 

“What?” Malik asked.

“He gave me a gift card,” Kadar whispered around his fingers. He moved his hand. “Like a prepaid visa thing. He gave me—Malik, Mom is going to _find him_ and she is going to _kill him_.”

“How much money did he give you?” Malik asked. He scooted forward and grabbed the card out of Kadar’s hand. His note was a much simpler, ‘get yourself something nice, kid’. The gift card was still in Kadar’s hand and he was still staring at it like he didn’t understand what he was holding. “How much is it?”

“Like five hundred dollars,” Kadar whispered.

Yes. Mother was going to find Altair and slaughter him. Malik grimaced and Kadar looked toward the door like he thought Mother was standing there listening.

“I’ll just put it up,” he said. “Buy some tacos or something. You know for the next three years. Who does this?” he asked the card. “You need to marry him. I need this kind of lifestyle. I need to casually mail strangers five hundred dollars.”

Malik rolled his eyes just before Aquila’s excited squirming in the box knocked it sideways off the bed and the cat yowled on his way to the floor in the box. Sailor, meanwhile, blinked with a airy dismissiveness as if he were never so very stupid and then laid his head back down on the pillow to sleep.

“Five hundred dollars,” Kadar was still whispering to the card. “What can you even spend that kind of money on?”

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> I’m not certain you still have this on your phone
> 
> I could be talking to nobody
> 
> I did smile at the books. But you broke my brother. He hasn’t stopped whispering to his new gift card since he opened it. I think he sleeps with his wallet under his pillow now.
> 
> Just got off a plane
> 
> I’m glad he liked it. I clearly have no ability to judge what amount of money is extravagant
> 
> For future reference, fifty dollars would have been more money than he has ever gotten.
> 
> Oops
> 
> Well, just scratch a zero off
> 
> It doesn’t work like that
> 
> I also liked my gift. I meant to send you a thank you but I got busy helping Desmond shop for Lucy
> 
> And dealing with last minute holiday things
> 
> The sketchbook kept me company on my flight.
> 
> Good.
> 
> I have to go. I’ll probably be asleep from the time I get to the hotel until tomorrow.
> 
> Sleep well

Altair took a shower, ordered something to eat and fell into his bed. He did not wake up until the next day, about the time Maria showed up in his hotel room looking amused to find him sleeping (naked). He had enough time to realize who the woman at the end of the bed was before she abruptly tossed something fluffy and cream-colored at his head. He was expecting a rolled up sock (or some other kind of clothing) and was therefore unprepared for the squeaking-bark noise the thing made when it the hit the bed in front of his hand. It rolled up into his arm and came to a stop with its tiny paws spread out in a sudden panic and its whole body twisting around to right itself.

“You threw a dog!” Altair shouted at her. The puppy finally managed to turn itself back over and immediately started sniffing at Altair’s underarm and all along the space where his body was pressed to the sheets. Its nose was a cold, damp tickle against his skin and he had to scoop the thing up before it went nosing its way down to get under the sheet. “Why would you throw a dog? Why is there a dog?”

Maria picked up a big paper bag and set it at the end of the bed. “She’s your present.”

The puppy was fluffy and tiny, its entire body fit into his hand. Her whole little face was the same cream-brownish color as the rest of her body interrupted only by the pitch black of her nose and eyes. It’s ears were nearly indistinguishable from the rest of her puppy fluff and she lapped at his thumb and rested her tiny little chin against the space between his thumb and finger. 

“Why did you get me a dog?” Altair asked. He had to shift how he was sitting on the bed before he set the puppy down. He expected it to run from him and was therefore uncertain what to do when she immediately climbed into his lap. 

“You need someone to love,” Maria said. 

“I don’t need a dog,” Altair said. He picked the puppy up and put her back on the bed, away from his lap. She barked at him, not once but repeatedly while her entire body shook with fury at having been displaced from a comfortable spot. And then she dove at his knee (a monstrous shape under the sheet in comparison to the fluff ball) and knocked her head into it before falling over sideways. “This is a stupid dog.”

“She’s not stupid, she’s a puppy. She’s _your_ puppy as soon as we break up so give her a name and learn to love her.” Maria curled her fingers in the bottom of the sheet and tugged it a little bit. The shift of the sheet made the puppy furious (or something) because it immediately started attacking the wrinkles with its miniature mouth and fluffy little paws. Maria was smiling at the puppy as she tugged the sheet back and forth before she relented and frowned at him (still frowning at her). “You can’t tell me that isn’t a cute puppy.”

“I can tell you that I’ll probably kill it,” Altair said. “I’ve never had a puppy in my life. I’ve never had any pet.”

Maria looked unimpressed. “This is why you have no concept of love. I’m not taking the puppy back. Give her a name and put some pants on. I am here to be seen with you. We’ll need to be done having fake sex by dinner.” Then she shook the sheet one more time and picked up the bag she’d dropped a moment earlier to carry it out toward the outer room of the hotel suite. 

\--

> **Lucy – coffee shop girl**
> 
> Maria bought me a dog
> 
> What kind?
> 
> A malti-poo? It’s like the size of my fist. What do I do to make it shut up?
> 
> Feed it?
> 
> Obviously I fed it. It has water too. It even peed on the carpet and shit in my shoe
> 
> now it’s making noise
> 
> What kind of noise?
> 
> constant whimpering
> 
> Are you holding it?
> 
> Why would I be holding it?
> 
> Pick it up, Altair. Hold it. It’s a baby.
> 
> Is it a boy or girl?
> 
> Girl
> 
> Did you pick her up?
> 
> Yes
> 
> What’s her name?
> 
> Pain in the ass
> 
> Might need a better, shorter name

Altair did not want to sleep with the puppy. The puppy did not want to be put on the floor. The puppy didn’t understand that her life was at stake. She didn’t seem to care about anything other than how nicely she fit into the space between his shoulder and neck when Altair was laying on his back. Her little body curled up in a neat fluffy ball and her breathing was a loud echo pressed against the space behind his ear. 

He thought about telling the puppy how he was not going to simply sleep on his back so she would be comfortable but the silence was too wonderful to protest. 

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> I went to talk to a man about the tattoo I want to get for my grandma
> 
> How did that go?
> 
> It went well. He asked a lot of questions about what sort of color I wanted and where I wanted it and how large and how my pain tolerance was.
> 
> So have you decided to proceed with getting the tattoo?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> I’m going back after Christmas for the first session then I have to wait a few months and go back again.
> 
> Why is ‘Nothing is true’ tattooed on your arm now?
> 
> I was angry about being misled.
> 
> Oh
> 
> I am thinking of adding ‘everything is permitted’ beneath it.
> 
> Pemphix is still not a word
> 
> That will be engraved on your headstone.
> 
> So I have a dog now. It’s tiny and whines a lot. It’s in the pocket of my hoodie at the moment. It seems happy there.
> 
> Who got you a dog?
> 
> Maria. She said I needed something to love. I need a name for it.
> 
> boy or girl?
> 
> Girl. I’ll send you a picture if I can get her out of the pocket.

The picture that Malik got in his e-mail was of a round little puppy face peeking out of the pocket of a heather-gray hoodie. Its little eyes looked almost like someone had pasted black spots onto its face. The rest of its body was a round shape inside of the pocket (apparently she did not consent to being removed from her nest). 

“That is not a dog,” he said to the picture. At best it was a hamster.

> but why did Maria pick that dog?
> 
> I do not know.
> 
> I think I’m going to call her London.
> 
> Put a bell on her, if she ever leaves that pocket you’ll never find her
> 
> I did lose her once already. I have to go. Maria wants us to be seen shopping together.

Malik was reading in the living room (but not the Twilight books) with Sailor laying in his lap. He looked down at the cat. Sailor had started out as small as his hand but the cat had grown (and grown and grown) until it was a full-sized animal cleverly hiding its predator-killing-machine-like body beneath flowing white fur. Sailor was prettier than most animals he’d ever seen but if given the opportunity to chase something smaller (and edible) he did not pass it by. Malik spent a moment trying to work out how to keep Sailor from killing and eating this new puppy before it even occurred to him that it wasn’t relevant.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Remember last year when you hung all that mistletoe so I’d kiss Lucy?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Well Lucy’s parent’s house seems to be like that
> 
> That’s a slight exaggeration.
> 
> But there is mistletoe in every doorway. I can’t leave the living room
> 
> I think you’ll survive, Desmond.  
>   
> 
> That’s because you wouldn’t mind kissing Aunt Gracie
> 
> I don’t want to kiss anyone but Lucy, thanks
> 
> Well I didn’t want this dog. Now I have to wear pants when I sleep
> 
> what?
> 
> She tried to crawl up my boxers last night.
> 
> That’s not happening again.
> 
> This is the perfect dog for you
> 
> Shut up, go kiss Aunt Gracie

Desmond was not exaggerating his fear of the doorways of Lucy’s house. They had been invited on the twenty-second with the understanding that there would be a wave of get-togethers to attend nearly the whole time they were there. Lucy had abandoned him to go talk to her female cousins in the kitchen and that left him in a room full of comfortably older people talking about football. Desmond didn’t follow sports (well he did watch soccer, especially the international games but that was largely because Ezio had been so insistent on it when they were younger) and had nothing of interest to contribute to the conversation. 

His glass was empty and the doorway into the kitchen looked relatively clear of obstacles. He stood up and was immediately attacked with orders for more beer and a fresh plate of snacks. When Desmond was walking away, Bee was remarking to the others, “I like him. That’s the nicest man Lucy has ever dated.” The compliment followed him all the way into the kitchen where he dumped his armload of empty bottles while the bevy of pretty blonde girls that were hiding in the kitchen all looked at him with that same-ish expression of having been caught gossiping. 

“What?” Desmond asked.

Lucy slid out from between two of the other girls and came over to put her hands on his shoulders and pointed upward. Desmond tipped his head back but he didn’t need to in order to know that he’d find yet _more_ mistletoe hanging there. Lucy was smiling with pink on her cheeks when he looked down at her again. “Look, you have to do a good job because I’ve been talking up how good you are at satisfying my needs and this is a need.”

“You’re in here talking about our sex life?” Their hushed whispers couldn’t possibly have been that secret in the small space the kitchen allotted. 

“Yes,” she said. “Don’t tell me you don’t talk about it with Altair or your friend at the bar.”

“I don’t. _You_ talk about it with Altair. I have to hear about what you said form him. I don’t give out information.”

Lucy slid her arms around his body and dug her fingers into his back in that singular way she did when she was displeased by his hesitancy. It was usually reserved for times they were actually naked so the sharp pain of it sent confusing messages to his dick. “Kiss me and do a good job,” Lucy said. “It’s a pride thing.”

“Fine,” Desmond answered. He slid his hand up into her hair and she smiled just before he ducked his head to kiss her. Of his own volition, it would have been a simple kiss. The sort that he wouldn’t be embarrassed to be caught giving and then Lucy’s nails bit into his back and she slid her tongue into his mouth. There was no forgetting the women that were watching but there was also no ignoring Lucy’s insistent that she get what she want. 

While he didn’t sigh, Desmond felt there was a definite moment when he simply gave up the fight. Lucy rewarded his surrender with her smooth hands on his back. Her body was tight against his the way it was when she was seconds away from dragging him off to her bed. The whole confusing disaster was dragging his brain from high-alert at being observed to sleepy-low thoughts about stable flat surfaces so that he’d almost forgotten that he was in her parent’s house.

“Desmond, son,” was Lucy’s Dad walking through the doorway of the kitchen. “Oh,” he said from the doorway. Lucy turned her head away from him but there was no mistaking the grin that crossed her face as Desmond was left to face her Father. Bee’s voice was a reproach but an odd mix of pride and faint embarrassment. “I didn’t realize you got caught in a trap.”

“Sorry,” Desmond said. “I’ll bring them in a minute.”

“You got to watch your step here, son,” Bee said. “The women hang these things everywhere.” He reached up to casually flick the sprig of mistletoe hanging over his head before heading back into the living room. 

Lucy was going to step away from him but Desmond caught her by the waist and pulled her back. “What?” she asked oh-so-innocently.

“You know what,” he hissed at her. 

“Oh this?” she said with a sweet smile on her face as her hand ducked between their bodies to squeeze his half-hard dick through his pants. It was only the clench of his jaw that kept him from making a sound and that seemed to amuse her even more. “I’m sorry,” was the least believable thing ever said to him, “Katie, can you take the guys some beers?”

Katie (one of the indistinguishable blonde cousins) laughed, “sure.”

“Come on,” Lucy said. She motioned toward the backdoor that was just beyond the fridge in the kitchen and took Desmond’s hand to pull him toward it. “The cold will cure your problem.”

Outside, the snow was thick on the ground and neither one of them had coats. There was only light from the windows at the back of the house that reflected off the snow and light up the indistinct features buried beneath the white drifts. Lucy was smiling though, even as the meanness smoothed out of the edges of her grin. “I’m sorry,” was sincere. “I know that bothers you.”

Desmond shrugged. “What do you mean it’s a pride thing?”

Lucy kicked the snow under her feet. “We all have this—you have to understand that this has been going on for generations in my family so it’s practically a bred-in quality at this point. There’s this general feeling that to be happy you have to catch like this really, strong,” Lucy’s hands spread out in front of in attempt to demonstrate what strong was, “like virile, sexy, dominant kind of guy. I don’t know, my whole life I’ve been watching those girls bring their boyfriends over comparing how competent they are at sex and domineering they are in the relationship. Men should take care of women.” Lucy shrugged. “I don’t know. I’ve never wanted that kind of guy but I guess even I can’t shake wanting to live up to the standard?” 

“So I’m not virile and sex?” Desmond said.

“Oh you’re virile and sexy, but I’m clearly the dominant one” Lucy said. The smile was fading away from her face though. “Seriously, are you alright? I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Is this a thing that I’m going to have to do again?” He kicked snow back at Lucy since her fidgeting was knocking it into his pant legs. “It’s not that it hate it—it’s just, I don’t like it.” He shrugged.

“No you don’t have to do it again, stop kicking snow at me or this is going to escalate.” Even as Lucy was saying the words she was kicking snow at his legs. He kicked it back and she shouted, “it is on,” before she reached down to scoop up an armful of snow to throw at him. They ran around the yard throwing snow until his clothes were soggy and her hands were bright red from the cold. When they went in, they had to go upstairs to change and Lucy locked the door behind them with a wicked sort of smile just seconds before she pushed him flat against her bedroom door and dug her chilly hands in under the waist band of his pants. 

\--

> Malik,  
>  I did a refresher course online about how to write Arabic script. I learned how to do it when I was a kid but as you can imagine it hasn’t really been a pressing concern in my life since then. In fact, everything I’m writing here could be scribbling. It’s also possible that you don’t actually read Arabic script. It’s probably more likely that I’m writing it wrong but there are obviously many things I do not know about you. What I do know is if someone in my family finds this notebook, they CANNOT read Arabic script and thus will not know what it says.
> 
> I am angry still. That’s important to know. It’s confusing because I am not angry that you lied to me to protect yourself. I have some idea that the events at the hotel the night of your prom acted as a ‘catalyst’ as you say for something that had been weighing on you for a while. You told me that not everything you’re afraid of will always be monsters that makes me think that whatever sort of monster I unleashed on you with my thoughtless actions, you must have found a way to defeat them in the end. So I’m not angry that you tried to protect yourself from me or that you let me keep believing in my first assumption. But I am angry, about all of that at the same time. You’re not wrong, I wouldn’t have handled the idea that you were a man with any grace. Maybe I’m angry about that; about how it was ever a necessity. 
> 
> Sometimes, I’m angry because I’m not that childish little dick anymore. I’m angry because you’re sending me messages and texts and thoughts and questions and favors and my head is full of things about you but you still don’t trust me enough to be honest.
> 
> I don’t know.

Maria had brought wine (because she liked wine) and a packet of dog biscuits. It was a confusing mix of items to bring to a sad, sad attempt at a Christmas party. They laid on his bed while London bounded around up and over and under their legs. The dog was desperately interested in the wine bottles but satisfied to get a biscuit larger than her face to gnaw on against the inside of his knee.

“Don’t you have parents?” Altair asked. He wasn’t drunk on wine, but he was _drinking_ and alone (more or less, Maria was a new and unpredictable addition to his attempt at a family still) while all of his usual holiday traditions were being enacted without him around the globe. “Shouldn’t you be with them?”

“I have a living family,” Maria said. “I don’t like them.” She pressed her lips together and wrinkled up her nose before tipping the wine bottle up to take a drink. Her arm laid across his thigh so she could reach the puppy and rub London’s little head. The motion interrupted London’s focus so that she was marching up to try to nip at Maria’s fingers before returning back to her biscuit.

“Are they assholes?”

“My Mom doesn’t know—well that’s not _exactly_ true, my Mom refuses to admit that I’m a lesbian. See, I fell in love with this girl. I didn’t mean to. I was sixteen or seventeen, I didn’t even realize what was happening, I think. I didn’t want it to be happening? I fell in love with her and she figured it out before I did. She called me names and told the whole school I was a lesbian and a freak. None of the girls would be in the bathroom at the same time as me or invite me anywhere with them. Then I fucked that guy so I wouldn’t be the lesbian creep.” Maria’s eyes went wide like saluting the stupidity of that idea before she tipped the bottle up and took another drink of it. Then she rested it against her leg as she licked the excess off her lips. “My Mom knows. She just won’t admit it.”

“Sorry,” Altair said. 

“Don’t be sorry, I’m a liar, remember?” Her smile was sad as she shrugged it off. “It’ll come out eventually. I mean, everyone has hated me so I’m not sure how they haven’t dug up the girls at my school.” Then she leaned back into the headboard. “I miss sex. I didn’t realize when I convinced you to date me that my usual outlets would be so offended they wouldn’t put out anymore.”

Altair snorted. “That seems unreasonable of them.” London chose that moment to bit the inside of his knee and leaned down to pick her up before she could do it twice. With the fluff ball cradled between his palm and chest, he couldn’t make out the curls of her fur but instead she blurred into a great cream-colored mess. “Why did you get me a dog?” he asked. 

“Because you’re always lonely,” Maria said. And then just as quickly, “don’t get me a dog. I’d rather have a girlfriend.” 

“Do dogs and cats really fight?” Altair asked. “Malik has a cat.” Maria’s response was a shrug. “I can’t believe you bought me a dog.” London dug her nails into his skin to pull herself up to his shoulder and laid there with full authority like a queen upon her throne. “This is barely a dog,” he added.

Maria rolled her eyes again. “You think about letting me fuck you in the ass anymore? Drinking makes me horny.”

Altair sighed. “No you can’t fuck me in the ass.”

“Are you saving it for your real girlfriend?” 

Altair glanced at her and she wasn’t even attempt to look repentant. “Malik is not a girl. You know Malik is not a girl. Don’t call Malik a girl. And what if I am? It seems fair. I was the first—”

“God, what an experience that must have been. I hope the poor kid was drunk off his ass. Fine, save your ass virginity for your true love. We can watch Christmas themed porn and get drunk and be merry.” She clapped her hands and Altair laughed at the curt way she waved him toward getting his computer. “Go, do as you are commanded.” 

He put London in the nest on the floor he’d made out of spare towels and went to get his computer. By the time he got back Maria had swapped out her first (empty) bottle of wine for the second and was gripping the neck of the second one with an assessing kind of lazy smile. “That is not meant to go into any part of your body,” he said before she could start that conversation again. 

Maria said, “it has a nice shape is all.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Mom wants to know if you’re ever coming home
> 
> Yes we’re coming home now
> 
> If Sofia could stop falling over
> 
> Doesn’t she live in a snowy state?
> 
> She says our snow is different.
> 
> she says to stop laughing.
> 
> I wasn’t even laughing.  
> 

By the time Malik, Sofia and Leonardo made it back to his house, the cold had soaked through his coat and glove. Snow had melted into his hat so his whole head felt damp, and his nose was running from the brisk chill in the air. There was a shiver somewhere in the center of his body that was working its way outward even while he laughed at the helpless way Leonardo was giggling over Sofia falling down four times in a row.

They shook their coats, hats, gloves, scarves out and hung them on the pegs by the front door just before the start of the carpet. He left his boots on the dirty mat by the door and his socks in a puddle under his coat. Even his feet were freezing cold. 

“Are you okay?” Sofia asked. She touched his face (but her hands were as cold as his face) and then bit her lip before she slid an arm around him and rubbed her hands on either of his shoulders. “Sorry I kept falling over. I have no idea what’s going on with your Connecticut snow.”

“Hey,” Kadar interrupted from the dining room. “Mom said there’s hot cider and hot chocolate in the kitchen. You’re supposed to drink it and take your vitamin C.” He was staring at his computer again, head ducked and papers spread out around him. The ones closest to his hands were the most important and the farther away they were, the less important they got. 

“I am back,” Leonardo said. “You were saying something before I left about the design for the new shirts—”

Sofia didn’t let Malik stop to listen in on the conversation but push him toward the kitchen. “I heard you need to take vitamin C. And you’re freezing.” She stopped pushing him (even if it was gentle) when they reached the kitchen where the confusing smell of hot apple cider and rich hot chocolate was mixing together from the two crockpots on the counter. The simmer smell of the chocolate was alluring in a way the gentle spice of the apple cider only wished it could be. “I can get us a drink if you point out the cups,” Sofia said. 

When she had gotten herself some cider and him some hot chocolate, she sat at the table with him. “You have a wonderful home,” she said. “The snow is tricky but this home is sweet. I feel like—you can almost see the places where you grew up.”

“We’ve lived here since before Kadar went to kindergarten,” he said. “That’s a long time.” He took a sip of his drink and the warmth that spread down his throat was nearly painful. The cold made his shoulder and residual limb ache. He rubbed at it while Sofia tried very hard not to make concerned-and-guilty faces at him. “It’s a good house,” he agreed.

“Thank you for letting me visit.” She took another drink of her cider and tipped her body to the side to look into the dining room with a confusion of concern-and-interest. “What is that?” she called through the open doorway. The sound of Kadar and Leonardo discussing the revision to the new T-shirt was indistinct but the way Kadar laughed was not. Leonardo carried a rustling poster into the room pressed between his fingertips on both sides. 

Sofia’s mouth fell open as she took the poster from him and turned it around to face Malik. He knew it was the poster of Altair with his stupid-short-skirt (and well-toned thighs spread just enough to seem inviting) and his curled fingers resting just beneath the hem of the skirt. “I want one,” she said.

Leonardo shook his head. “It would take an act of God to pry that man from Malik. His devotion would inspire poetry and they have not even properly met.” He took a breath to look at the poster, “he has nice legs,” he said before he turned around and went back to Kadar.

Malik sighed as Sofia looked at the poster (with unconcealed interest) before she rolled it up and tucked it behind the napkins on the edge of the table closest to the wall. “You can keep the poster, Kadar keeps trying to give it to me.”

“How is that going?” Sofia asked. She took a polite sip of her drink but did not accept or decline his offer to take the stupid poster. Malik might beat Kadar with it the next time he found it in his room (or taped to the ceiling over his bed). Too much time away from school had ruined the idiot’s brain. 

“Well, I still haven’t told him I’m a man but he just started talking to me like a normal person again.” Malik shrugged. “I think I should tell him and then I think I shouldn’t. I—obviously haven’t. I don’t know how.”

Sofia hummed. “You’ll figure it out.” But her eyes were narrow and her hands—warmed by the cider now—pressed against his face. “You really don’t look good. Where’s that vitamin C? Maybe you should go lay down.”

“I’m fine,” Malik told her, “just cold. Because someone kept falling down on the way home.” It had been his idea to walk in the first place. The fact that he hadn’t expected to walk so far (and he’d forgotten how easily distracted Leonardo could be or how persuasive Sofia was) didn’t mean he regretted the idea. It just meant he had to shiver out the cold for a little longer than he wanted. “What about you? Do you have a boyfriend? Prospects?”

“Nope. Nothing. But I did read this book the other day,” Sofia said. “I’ve had to find my own since someone didn’t send me any.” 

Malik rolled his eyes. “We’ll go to the bookstore tomorrow to pick out a book for you. Ok?”

“Don’t tease me,” Sofia said. “I don’t like being teased.” But she was smiling when she said it, in a way that almost negated the still-concerned tilt of her eyebrows as she looked at him. “But I was reading this book,” she started again.

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: S. Badger [sass_badger@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> So here’s the start of the new tattoo, and ‘everything is permitted’ is there too now. So the man told me that ribs are a hard part to tattoo. I think he described it as hellish-vomiting kind of pain. For some people, he said. I believed him. But clearly I didn’t believe him enough. This thing is supposed to be full-color when it’s done but at this point, with that awful experience vivid in my mind, grandma might have to settle for the muted-toned skeletons of these flowers. 
> 
> London thinks the lotion for the tattoo is some kind special-puppy-treat that humans rub on themselves and she’s on a constant mission to lick it off.

Altair was sitting on the bed and London was whimpering uselessly on the floor. He watched her turn circles and then jump at the covers hanging over the side. Once or twice she’d gone under the bed to whine uselessly there before returning to the spot where she could see him best. “No,” he told the dog.

London whined about how terribly unfair he was. 

“I’m not putting you up here,” he said.

London laid on the floor and cried. 

Altair huffed as he leaned over and the stupid puppy trotted up to him, all licking-pink-tongue and happy little feet. She laid herself into his hand and barked until he dropped her on the bed. Then she pounced around before coming back up to nose at the hem of his shirt, when he tucked that into his pants, she abandoned the mission to attack his toes. He wiggled them to make her bark and snorted at how stupid and excited she was. (But he did it again, and then again, until she gave up and fell asleep.)

 


	56. Chapter 56

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> I need your lawyers
> 
> These people I live with are making me go to the doctor
> 
> I’m fine
> 
> you’re not fine, they said
> 
> you have a fever. You’re delusional.
> 
> You need to go to the doctor. Be stubborn all you want about anything but your health.
> 
> You don’t have a spleen, you can’t afford to be stubborn about a fever. Go, get antibiotics, rest and get better.
> 
> How often do you see the doctor?
> 
> Once every six months now that I’m officially older than my Mother was when she died but when I was a kid, I went constantly. My Grandmother thought since my Mother died of a hereditary heart deformity and my Dad died of disease passed on through his genetics that I should have the constant benefit of persistent, early intervention
> 
> I basically spent my childhood being tested for things that might kill me.
> 
> I didn’t know that
> 
> Go to the doctor
> 
> I’m going

Truthfully, Malik felt awful. In fact, if there were a scale wherein awful were the best possible way to feel and there were a word that indicated how he felt overheated, cold, beaten, exhausted and dull he would be closer to that. Every inch of his body ached and what didn’t ache was hot and what wasn’t hot was freezing. His head felt like it had been stuffed full of cotton but it was also throbbing and his throat felt like he’d swallowed razors. While he’d been content to lay in his bed indefinitely, Leonardo had wandered in, touched his forehead and then immediately said:

“I’m getting your Mother.”

Mother had come to check on him and did the thing where she hissed at him being stubborn for no reason and lectured him in Arabic while she went to fetch the phone and make him a doctor’s appointment. 

Sofia had invited herself along for the ride to the doctor’s office and sat against his side so he had someone to lean against while they waited for his name to be called. He didn’t hear (or perhaps he’d gone to sleep without noticing) when he was called but was prodded awake and guided down the hall. 

It was the doctor (not so unlike Altair far earlier in the day) that frowned at him with any sort of authority and reminded him that he didn’t have a spleen and therefore couldn’t go around risking sepsis and death. He was lectured (briefly) about how important it was to get a flu shot and how he shouldn’t be out frolicking in bad weather. Then he was given antibiotics (to prevent pneumonia rather than the flu he had) and sent home with strict instructions to call or return if he had any of a long list of symptoms.

At home, Leonardo might have carried him up the stairs (but he felt like he managed most of them by himself) and deposited him in his bed. Malik slept for a while, but he knew for sure that it was Kadar that came into the room to stand by his bed with his weight leaning on his crutches (terrible habit) to give him a bottle of water and a variety of pills. 

“Hey,” Kadar said. “Wake up a minute.”

“I’m up,” Malik mumbled at him. (He wasn’t up, but he was almost good at lying about it.) He finished swallowing the pills (that was a special sort of hell) before he sank back into his overheated pillows. “What?” he asked. To prove how awake he was, he even managed to open his eyes and look at Kadar.

“I told your boyfriend you’ve got the flu and you’ve been asleep most of the day. If you get awake enough to be coherent, maybe tell him you’re not dying?” Kadar had the hard-lined-worry on his face the way he’d had back in the hospital. He didn’t touch Malik (but he wanted to, it hovered in his hands, caught in the mid-space between his own body and Malik’s) as he stood there looking at him. “Also, drink water. Mom says it’s important that you keep drinking.”

“Ok,” Malik said.

“I’ll come in here,” Kadar said. “I’ll sit on your bed and tell you to drink something every ten minutes.” 

As far as threats went, it wasn’t a very effective one. Malik nodded his head and pulled his blankets back up over his shoulder. Kadar hovered (or didn’t, he couldn’t tell) while Malik fell asleep again.

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> Drink water
> 
> why is your ring tone so annoying?
> 
> I made your brother change it
> 
> Drink water.
> 
> I did
> 
> Drink water
> 
> fine
> 
> Drink water
> 
> are you actually going to text this to me every ten minutes?
> 
> Yes. Did you drink water?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Why aren’t you asleep?
> 
> It’s morning where I am. Also London didn’t want to sleep anymore
> 
> My body hurts
> 
> I’m sorry
> 
> I don’t remember it hurting this much when it got hit by a car
> 
> Better pain medicine, most likely
> 
> I don’t know where anyone is
> 
> someone was supposed to share my room
> 
> Most likely they decided not to get your germs
> 
> Drink some water
> 
> I fell asleep
> 
> how is your hamster?
> 
> Perfectly pleased as long as she can sleep in my pocket.
> 
> Drink some water
> 
> it is four in the morning, I should sleep
> 
> How long have you been sleeping?
> 
> the doctors appointment was at 11 yesterday
> 
> Drink some water
> 
> just shut up
> 
> I need a shower, I’m cold
> 
> No. You have a fever.
> 
> I’m cold
> 
> Drink some water
> 
> are you going to do this all day?
> 
> Probably.
> 
> did Kadar put you up to this?
> 
> He asked me to annoy you because you listen to me
> 
> I thought about sending you sexy subliminal messages
> 
> there is nothing sexy about me right now
> 
> Drink some water.
> 
> I hate you

Malik woke up at ten in the morning with dozens of texts reminding him to drink water and a new e-mail from the idiot. He was groggy, disoriented and aching as he dragged himself out of bed and shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. He refilled his water bottle and shuffled back expecting his bed to be the same as he left it. Rather than finding it unoccupied and rumpled, Sofia was in there stripping off his sheets. 

“What are you doing?” Malik asked.

“Your sheets are gross,” she said. She finished pulling the old ones off and dropped them on the floor before shaking out the new ones. Malik shuffled over and sat in the computer chair. There was no part of his body that didn’t hurt but lying in bed for twenty-four hours (more or less) had made the ache in his left shoulder even more pronounced. “You need to get up for a little bit,” she said.

No, what he needed was to go back to sleep with his phone on silence until he died or got better. The thing where he sat upright made his head hurt more and drove back into awareness the depth of his aches and pains. He rubbed his sore shoulder before he opened his laptop to see what the idiot had sent him on e-mail. 

Sofia finished his bed and came over to put her hand on his forehead. Her little hiss of breath was disapproving of the temperature she found there. “Have you taken any fever reducer?” But she didn’t seem to need to hear that he had no, in fact, done anything but sleep in his bed. Rather than lecture him about this oversight, she caught a glimpse of the picture that Altair had sent to him. It was a(nother) bathroom picture only this time, London was standing on the counter staring into the mirror while Altair held a sheet of paper over his hips that said ‘drink some water’ and otherwise he was completely naked. (Also, significantly more tan and better defined than Malik remembered.)

“That,” Sofia said, “will not help you cool off. Do you get pictures like that often?”

Aquila meowed as he slid between her legs and made a motion to jump onto Malik (normally welcome, currently an unbearable idea) but Sofia caught him before he could manage it. Malik got back up to his feet and shuffled toward the bed. “No,” he said. “I’m tired.”

“I’m bringing you something for the fever,” Sofia said (like a threat). “You idiot.”

\--

> Malik,
> 
> You have to start doing a better job at taking care of yourself. As amusing as you are while you’re delirious with fever, I need to be able to concentrate on something besides whether or not you are actually drinking water like you say you are. Nice to know your brother’s name though. He seems like a good kid—probably better than either one of us—so it’s nice to know he has a real name besides just ‘K’. 
> 
> On the one hand, I’m tempted to ask you more questions while your defenses are down on the other hand, I don’t want you to confess anything to me. It’s mean-spirited (almost cruel, one might say) to say that I just want to have this time to _know_ this about you without you knowing that I know. I don’t want you to tell me the truth yet and I don’t know if that’s because I’m not ready to deal with it myself or if it seems just as likely that if you tell me now that I’ll have to spend half my time convincing you that it actually isn’t a problem. You seem like the sort that wouldn’t’ believe good things could happen.
> 
> I don’t have it in me to convince you of that right now. I’m still mad. I’m still hurt. I’m not ready to deal with convincing you damn-all-the-consequences. So don’t say anything yet. Keep the secret a little while longer, yeah?

London fit too easily in his pocket. That was the primary problem that Altair currently had with the dog. She was too small to be real and therefore too easy to lose. (But not easy to forget as she followed him around demanding attention constantly.) Maria asked him to go for a walk because the weather was mild but she was rolling her eyes when he showed up with London curled up in his hood. He had the nicer coat (the one that Maria preferred) on over the hoodie but he didn’t want to have to carry London the entire time so he dropped her into the hood and after some initial worry she had accepted the new nest.

Maria didn’t kiss him (like usual) but put her hands on her hips and sigh at him. “I know that I’m the one that gave you the dog but I honestly didn’t expect you to—that dog is sleeping in your hood. You’ve only had her two weeks, how did you make her comfortable so fast?”

Altair shrugged. 

“Should we go find a dog boutique? Do we need to get her a little bow and a pink sweater so she won’t be cold while we walk?” Maria was being purposefully (maliciously) sarcastic about it but Altair smiled at her (like he loved her) and kissed her even while she rolled her eyes at him. “My other choice was a turtle. I wasn’t sure if it would pass through customs.” She reached past his neck to pet London who stirred briefly before resuming sleep. “I guess it’s better you do like her.”

“Do you think she’s cold?” Altair asked. “They make dog sweaters?”

Maria sighed again. “Come on, let’s go shopping for our baby. Just make sure everyone knows this is _your_ baby. I don’t want to be associated with this.” Then she took his hand. “We’ll walk a bit and catch a cab.”

“Do you think she’s cold?” Altair asked again. He tried turning his head to look at London but he couldn’t actually see her clearly and other than the disturbed little kicks of her paws against his back, he couldn’t tell if she was uncomfortable in any way. “I was just worried she was going to pee on me.”

“She’s a dog. She’s fine.” Maria dismissed the notion with a wave of her hand. “How’s Sass? You said he was sick?”

“Flu,” Altair said. “On that note.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tugged his glove off so he could send another message. _Drink more water_ was swiftly responded to with _go die, I’m sleeping_. Altair snorted at it and looked up to find Maria looking amused-and-fond of him. “What?”

“I used to feel sorry for Sass. I used to think that you would destroy her but now I see that I underestimated your loyalty. Now I think, you should never meet this person. Once you get your eyes and your hands on Sass, you won’t ever want to let go. It’s romantic, I guess. If you subscribe to romantic tendencies.”

“I’m dumping you after the Oscars,” Altair said. 

“Is that your way of saying you don’t subscribe to romantic tendencies?” Her cheeks were pinked from the cold. She was wearing her red coat (always dramatic, that one) that fit her like a glove. Her free hand was tucked into her pocket and her hair was down around her face in a way that she described as ‘a softening effect’ that was her constant attempt to undermine the severity of her face. Magazine men had the tendency of describing her as ‘expressionless’ but that was their attempt at being polite because Maria almost always looked like she wanted to murder everyone around her. “There was probably a nicer way to do it.”

“It’s my way of telling you I do subscribe to romantic tendencies. I want Sass. I’d dump you now if you thought it would get you more press. I thought you’d rather make it through the award ceremony without having to worry about people asking you where your date is.” He hadn’t known Maria for _very long_ but he’d known her just long enough to figure that the thing that bugged her more than anything was being asked where her man was. Or if she was going to find a new one or what she liked in men. 

“That’s considerate of you,” Maria said softly. She sighed. “I’ll support you. Publicly, if that’s what you want. I’ll be the sweet ex-girlfriend that only wants the best for you. You’re a good guy.” 

London yelped suddenly and Altair had to reach over his head to extract her from the hood (which took longer than necessary because of the dog’s wiggling and flailing). He held her up against his chest while she whimpered all of her imagined hurt to him. Then she crept up to press her face against his neck and he had the distinct joy of having to hold her little body so she could maintain that level of closeness. 

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> Drink water
> 
> I’m alive again. Miserably alive
> 
> you can quit
> 
> Are you going to be alive enough for the Friday thing?
> 
> I can’t leave my room unless I’m eating or showering
> 
> My brother convinced my Mom that I’d contaminate the clean areas
> 
> so yes.
> 
> Good.
> 
> I guess. My friends came to see me and I’ve been stuck in bed most of the time they’ve been here
> 
> Oh. When do they leave?
> 
> Friday
> 
> Well it’s not like you did it on purpose.
> 
> Just concentrate on getting better. 

Leonardo was sitting at his desk still pressed to the end of Malik’s bed (despite the fact that Aquila knocked everything off his desk and Sailor used it as a platform to jump onto the dresser and from there climb into the closet). He had his smaller sketch pad open as he steadily worked on immortalizing the moment that Malik felt like absolute shit, simultaneously too tired to care and too pathetic to fight him. 

“You never told me how it went with Ezio,” Malik said. The fever had finally broke while he was sleeping (last night) but the disgusting feeling was persisting. He had enough energy to stay awake for four or five hours before he had to take a nap to manage another three or four hours. His head was feeling better (at least) but the rest of his body was still aching. 

“It was fun.” Leonardo paused sketching to frown about a line and adjusted the way he was holding his pencil before he continued. “He taught me how to make gnocchi. We had sex in the kitchen. I taught him how to draw a straight line.”

“You had sex on a sketchbook?”

Leonardo’s smile was quick across his face but gone when he looked up from his sketch. “No. I wouldn’t disrespect my art like that. We were being filmed as well.” When he had finished his sketch he dropped his pencil and leaned back in the chair. “I like Ezio. He is funny and easy. I like laughing with him and his body is amazing.”

“You should stop gloating at Sofia,” Malik said. 

“I have limited my gloating.” He put his arms up behind his head and made a loud sound like a growl or a yawn all in one. “It has been good, this thing with Ezio. It reminds me why I don’t indulge in romantic ideations. There is such honest joy in taking the time to spend with him. It is carefree, open, without limitations or expectations. We are both aware that we have selfish goals in meeting that are gently wrapped in flirtatious asides.”

Malik was too tired to take anything personally. What he’d learned about Leonardo in the past few years was that all of his pondering and poetic ramblings were never personal. He leaned back against the headboard of his bed, “so you’re over me and you’re happy again?”

Leonardo rolled his eyes and pulled his long stringy hair away from his face with slow-curling fingers. He looked more intentional (and careful) when he said, “loving you is not a regret. For a while, I was safe with you and there was a different sort of joy in that knowledge. I have not looked for, nor do I expect to ever go searching again for the sort of comfort that comes from the love that I felt—still feel—for you. I do not want the complicated scaffolding of love. I want the _sky_ , Malik. I want freedom and boundless possibility. I cannot even stand to live in the same rooms for longer than a few months at a time, it’s impossible to imagine I could stand to love someone for as long as you would have wanted to be loved.” 

That was a ridiculous notion. Malik sighed. “I didn’t love you that way,” he said. “But I do love you.”

“I know,” Leonardo said. He let go of his hair again and it fell in his face. Then he frowned down at his sketch pad like there was something he hated to see reflected back at him from it. When he sighed, it was utter defeat, “I sincerely hope that Altair is the man that you think he is capable of being. I hope that the good he has done for you is only the start of a lifetime of the same. Regardless of my own selfish reasoning, it seems that the two of you are very evenly and very well matched.”

“Now it sounds like you’re breaking up with me,” Malik mumbled. He didn’t like the space between them but illness (and common sense) made it seem like the only decent idea they’d ever had at the same time. 

“I am,” Leonardo said. “We can never have sex again, Malik. I could cry. But as you go forward in life, remember the magnificent things that I have shown you.”

Malik threw a pillow at him that fell short of hitting him. “You’re stupid.” And then, “give me back my pillow.”

Leonardo tossed it back at him with a smile. “Looks like naptime. I’m sure Sofia or your brother will show up with some kind of pills for you soon. Have sweet dreams.” He picked up his sketchbook as he got up. Malik watched him go and felt a conflicted sensation of sorrow and peace. The hurt followed him into sleep even if the peace that came from having the half-settled thing finally finished tried its best to soothe the ragged edges.

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> I’m a little bit drinking
> 
> Maria likes wine
> 
> Wine? 
> 
> Can you even get drunk with wine?
> 
> It’s midnight in five mintues
> 
> Five hours to midnight here.
> 
> Don’t kiss anyone at midnight sass.
> 
> I don’t believe in superstitions.
> 
> I don’t either but this is our year so don’t kiss anyone
> 
> please?
> 
> What makes this year different than the last one?
> 
> Last year I didn’t know
> 
> what I wanted. This year I do
> 
> While drunk, I’m not sure that counts.
> 
> drinking, not drunk. You can’t undermine this one. I know I want you.
> 
> Ok. I won’t kiss anyone.

“I don’t want to be afraid this year,” Maria said. She was lying across the foot of the bed, shirt hiked up to show her belly, wine bottle hanging loosely from her fist off the side of the bed. She laughed when she said it, with her hand in her hair and her face scrunching up like it couldn’t figure out the difference between happy-and-sad. “That’s stupid. It’s so stupid. I just—I don’t want to be scared anymore. I don’t want to have to watch my pronouns. I don’t want to have to keep my hands to myself. I don’t want to have to negotiate privacy terms with women I’m using. I don’t—”

Altair rolled up onto his knees, dropped his phone in the wrinkles of the bed and set the wine bottle on the bedside table. He scooted down to pull Maria up against his body as her voice broke and her pointy elbow jabbed his ribs twice before she relented to being held. Her face was pressed against his collarbone and her leg was across his hip with the wine bottle as a heavy presence against his back. “What you’re scared of won’t always be monsters,” he said to her.

She laughed but it broke apart into little hiccupped coughs-like-sobs. 

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> It’s midnight in five minutes
> 
> I don’t know if you’re asleep or not
> 
> It’s not fair, you know. I know who you are but you don’t know who I am
> 
> How can you want me when you don’t know who I am?
> 
> Shut up
> 
> I know WHO you are. I don’t know what you look like and I don’t want to know
> 
> I want to see you for the first time, in person, not in some awful memory
> 
> where what I did made you hate me
> 
> But you don’t KNOW
> 
> It was your choice not to tell me in the beginning. It’s my choice now not to want to know yet.
> 
> You should know
> 
> I’m asking you to trust that whatever you look like, the fact that I love you is more important
> 
> It’s midnight.
> 
> Happy New Year Altair
> 
> Happy OUR year Sass.
> 
> Drink some water and go to sleep
> 
> Jerk

It wasn’t much of a New Years anyway. Kadar, Leonardo and Sofia were downstairs shouting about midnight, Mother was in her room (sleeping most likely, she had never understood the significance of staying up all night) and Malik was half-asleep, laying curled up on his bed with Aquila an obnoxious round shape against his back and Sailor a white ghost laying all across the foot of the bed. 

“Yeah well. I’m a man.” He considered typing it out and sending it. Falling asleep and leaving Altair to work out how to feel about it. Far worse than the idea that he wouldn’t be able to cope with the idea of being in love with a man was the hope that he _could_. It was a battered little sensation in the center of his body that was clawing at the insides of his ribs. He _wanted_ it to be true so bad he almost couldn’t convince himself it probably wasn’t. 

He didn’t send the text and he couldn’t convince himself it was because Altair asked him not to either.

\--

> [Livestream starts with off-screen puppy barking. Altair rolls his eyes as he dips to the side and when he straightens up again he’s holding a puppy wearing a pink bow between her ears on the top of her head.] 
> 
> Altair: so this is London. [Holds London’s paw to wave at the screen.] We would like to welcome you to Fun Fact Friday. Let’s get started because Sass has the flu and should be sleeping. The first question is, ha! The first question is good. What is Altair’s shoe size? [London tips head to lick Altair’s chin and pushes a paw at his jaw. Altair looks down at her and scrunches up his nose. London shakes her head and barks back.] That drives her crazy. I don’t know why. It’s funny, watch, she’ll do it again. [Altair makes the same face and the dog barks again. Then Altair rubs her head with his fingers and picks up his phone to look at it.] Oh, Sass doesn’t know. That’s okay Sass. It depends on what kind of shoe it is anyway. 
> 
> Altair: So, let’s do an easy question since you’re feeling so under the weather and all. Do you eat candy and if you do what is your favorite kind of candy?

Altair left London behind when he went to meet Maria for lunch. She had been gone when he woke up (the second time) on New Year’s and she’d avoided him for twenty-four hours before sending a text and asking to meet him from lunch before he went back home. He hadn’t shaved (and she didn’t like that about his face) but he thought the stubble did a good job cover the scratches that London had left when she decided that he was sleeping too long and needed to get up and attend to her important needs. 

Maria was perfectly composed sitting across from him at the table. “So, how long are you going home for? I only ask because I’ve been approached about doing a photoshoot with you and given your fondness for wearing skirts I thought this one would interest you.”

“I don’t have a fondness for—” Altair didn’t even try to argue the point. “When would this photoshoot possibly take place and what’s it for?”

“I have a friend who happens to be a photographer and she was interested in exploring gender roles. Since I am well known as petite and feminine and you are publicly thought of as a mouthy hyper-masculine misogynist she thought we would be an interesting choice for models. I told her that I’d ask.” Maria tipped her head to the side and looked down at his lap and then up at his neck. “I was looking for the dog,” she said when he spread his arms to make it easier for her to gawk at him. “Where is she?”

“She’s at the hotel,” he said. “I’ll think about the photoshoot and let you know. I don’t think it’ll be a problem but it will have to wait until after the fourteenth? I try to spend a few days at home around my birthday.” Then since they were doing such a fantastic job not talking about it, he sighed, “are you okay?”

Maria’s smile was so perfectly sincere it was almost indistinguishable from the real thing. “I’ll be okay. Don’t worry about me.”

The restaurant was the wrong place to argue that point with her so Altair just nodded along to her reassurances and let her drag the conversation back into talk of their schedule for the next month. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Jenna just cornered me in the art hall to tell me she has feelings
> 
> for me
> 
> romantically
> 
> Well everyone in the world saw that coming.
> 
> You are extremely helpful, thank you

Kadar did not go into art hall very often. He wasn’t inclined toward anything that was even remotely considered ‘the arts’ except for his appreciation for pictures and music. His group had come back from break with the same resolve to stick together as before. (He’d honestly expected it to fizzle out.) Despite the fact that there had never been less than five of them at any given time, he still managed to find himself standing in front of Jenna as she sat on one of the round tables in the empty space in the center of the art hall. She looked unsure and pink-embarrassed as she pushed her hair behind her ear. 

“I really like you,” she said all at once. The words were a rush of sound, hurried to get out of her mouth before the other girls got back from seeking out the advice of Mr. Caccavali (the art teacher). Jenna was looking at him (with her pretty greenish-hazel eyes) while she bit her lip (a constant pretty petal pink) while she waited for a reaction.

The best Kadar managed was a sound like he’d been kicked in the gut.

“I know you’re dating Stephanie and this sucks to put it on you but I couldn’t just—keep walking around like it wasn’t true. I do. I think you’re one of the nicest, sweetest, most honest and decent guys that I’ve ever met and I feel stupid that I never saw you for the amazing person that you are before. I think Stephanie is great but—” Jenna shrugged. “I still really like you.”

“Oh,” Kadar said. He lifted his hand to rub the back of his head and then dropped it again to hold onto the crutches (he was almost done with them) and was saved from having to come up with an answer by the arrival of the other girls. They pulled Jenna almost instantly into a conversation about the new posters and campaign slogan while Kadar just stood there watching Jenna carry on like she hadn’t just—said all that.

He was trying to work out how he felt (and how he’d come to be in such a situation) with the nagging sensation that Jenna was just _amazingly pretty_ and so far removed from any sort of girl that he’d ever expect to get to look at him. It was a filthy, base kind of pride that he’d managed to attract one of the unattainable sort of girls. And while he was thinking all about how proud he was of himself (and his scruffy, half-curled hair and his unharmonious face caught between baby cute and actual adult angles) he couldn’t help but watch Jenna’s face caught up in excitement.

She was so _beautiful_.

(But that was it, wasn’t it? That was all there was in his feelings for her.) He looked down at his hands and then cleared his throat over the noise of all their talking. “Hey, I’m going to go sit in my next class. It’s just up the hall. You guys don’t have to go.”

“Nonsense,” Ebony said. “We can talk and walk. Come on.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Are you home?
> 
> Y
> 
> Was that a why or a yes?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Good, come open your door

Desmond had heard that Altair got a dog. He had seen a picture of the dog. He hadn’t expected the dog to be as unreasonably small as it was. Altair answered the door (half asleep) wearing a white undershirt, a pair of gray flannel pants and carrying the dog in one of his hands. The puppy had the air of every pretentious small dog. Her paws were wrapped around two of Altair’s fingers as she looked down on Desmond with her tiny, beady black eyes. The bow in her hair was perfectly placed to highlight the ridiculous miniscule size of her face. Her little mouth opened to emit a single unhappy bark before her entire body seemed to wiggle with impatience at being held so close to him. 

Altair’s response to the dog’s wriggling was to swing the door shut and set the puppy on the floor. “Don’t get lost again,” he said to the dog. Then he walked over to collapse on his couch. “What can I do for you?” Was mumbled mostly to the big white pillow that Altair pulled down under his chest and face but some of it managed to escape to make it to Desmond. 

“I haven’t seen you in a few weeks, I thought I’d stop by and say hi.” Desmond’s path to his usual chair was interrupted by the puppy that was suddenly caught in a battle against his shoelaces. “Did you end up getting the tattoo?”

Altair rolled onto his right side (which put his back to the edge of the couch) and lifted his shirt to show the dark outline of what might eventually be a large set of flowers. It didn’t look finished (because it wasn’t) but the sheer size of it was enough to make Desmond impressed. Altair rolled back onto his belly and reached out with his hand to tap on the ground and get the attention of the puppy.

“So how are you?” Desmond asked. “Why did you keep this dog?”

“I like her,” Altair said. He was successful in getting her attention and once he had it, he started tip-toeing his fingers across the floor at her. The result was spastic, intense barking and shaking which seemed to amuse Altair rather than seem problematic. “She’s fun,” he added. “What about you?” Altair scooped London up and rolled onto his back so he could drop her on his chest. 

“Good,” Desmond said.

Altair smiled. “You look good. You didn’t look good a year ago. No offense but you might not have ever looked good before. This is a nice look for you, healthy, strong. You should keep it up.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t think about last January (often) but he didn’t avoid the thought either. The great overwhelming sum of his issues with the Auditore family had been the center-point of focus for his life for such a long time that he felt almost lost without having that weight on him. It was an empty-sort-of feeling that crushed down into his chest. A year hadn’t given him perfect peace but he felt _capable_ of handling what was still lurking around in his head. “I feel good. What about you?”

Altair shrugged. “I’m good.” He picked London up and wrinkled his nose up at her. She barked and kicked her tiny-fluffy-paws at him before he set her down again. 

“I just can’t believe you have a dog,” Desmond said again. “With a bow. You. _You_ of all people.” 

“She has sweaters too,” Altair said. “Little pink ones with skirts.” Then he rolled up off the couch and set the puppy on the floor to chase after his heels as he went toward his room. Desmond expected there to be one sweater (maybe) but not to have handfuls of tiny sweaters with various cute designs and ruffled skirts that came out of the bottom hem. The puppy whimpered when Altair put the sweater on her but then she was disgustingly cute sitting there with her little black eyes and her pink sweater looking precious. “See?” Altair said. “How can you not like that?”

“That is a cute dog,” Desmond said. “I don’t want one. Don’t show it to Lucy.”

“Lucy can’t have my dog,” Altair said. “She’s mine.” Then he went back to messing with the puppy who danced around his fingers with her tiny tail waving under her little ruffle skirt. “Stop sighing at me, Desmond.”

Desmond sighed again (but louder). “One day I’ll stop being surprised by the things you decide to love.” Then, because it was early (sort of) still and he had no better plans, “want to go with me to get coffee?”

“Sure,” Altair said. “But the dog is going in my pocket. She’s quiet, so we shouldn’t get caught.” 

When Desmond sighed that time it was entirely purposeful. “Fine. But if I end up getting one of those dogs, you’re puppy sitting.”

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> So after we get married are we living in a house or an apartment?
> 
> House
> 
> What kind of house?
> 
> I don’t know. I just don’t want to live in an apartment
> 
> The only houses I’ve lived in are mansions
> 
> Not a mansion? Something reasonable sized
> 
>    
>  What’s reasonable? How many bedrooms? Square footage?
> 
> Two bedrooms? Three?
> 
> That’s very small. My penthouse has four, maybe five. I don’t know how many actually.
> 
> Why do you need that many rooms? What are you using them for?
> 
> Visiting relatives usually.
> 
> I don’t know what to do with that much space
> 
> Seems wasteful
> 
> I need a vision of your ideal house. Find one to send to me
> 
> Sure, next time I’m at the computer.

“What am I supposed to do?” Kadar asked. He had explained the whole thing (with some exaggeration). The question was (conceivably) open to Malik or Mother. They were all sitting around the table in the kitchen, eating dinner while they bumped each other’s knees under the table. The dining room had been completely overtaken with Kadar’s protest and there was no hope at reclaiming it until success or graduation (whichever came first). 

“Do you have any feelings about this girl that aren’t based on her looks?” Malik asked. 

Mother was tight-lipped (and thinking) but it was obvious from the side-eyed that she gave Malik for his comment that she didn’t appreciate his line of thought. Whether she didn’t like that Malik asked or that Kadar might judge people on such shallow standards was unclear. 

“No?” Kadar said. “I don’t want to date Jenna. I like Stephanie. She’s amazing and smart and thought I was a good guy before. Do I tell Stephanie? What do I say to Jenna? Do I say anything to Jenna?”

Mother said, “yes, you should tell Stephanie. Honesty is an important part of any good relationship. Tell her what Jenna said, that you told Jenna you were happy in your current relationship. Hopefully, Stephanie will appreciate your honesty.”

More likely, Stephanie would be upset that some other girl was interested in her boyfriend and it would escalate into some complicated drama that ended with his brother being caught between feuding girls. Malik nodded along with his Mother though. She had managed to stay married to his Father successfully (and happily) for years and Malik had one semi-successful relationship with a man who still thought he was a woman. (Clearly his relationship advice was not the best.)

“What if Stephanie doesn’t?” Kadar asked.

“It is still better that when it mattered, you were honest. Regardless of the outcome,” Mother said. That time when she looked at him, it was evident what that commentary was in relation to. Kadar sighed but Malik made a show out of enjoying his dinner. 

\--

son-of-no-one: going back to the old house. Caught between nostalgia for where I grew up and slight fear because there’s a fog and this house could be haunted (20m ago)

Shirley-templar: if it were haunted we’d all be dead by now (17m ago)

Coffee4college: I’ll protect you boys (13m ago)

Mrs. Finch had a cold but she still met them in the kitchen with fresh cookies and hot chocolate. There was a stack of photo albums waiting on the table that Lucy and Desmond were picking through with obvious delight.

Altair was sitting apart from them, watching Mrs. Finch coo over London. The old house was silent everywhere except this little pocket of sound. The halls were devoid of the constant noise he remembered from his childhood. The walls were going gray from lack of use. There were rooms here that hadn’t been opened in years, probably more than he wanted to consider. The whole of his Grandma’s life was still caught in these doors-and-hallways. 

“How are you, Mrs. Finch?” Altair asked.

Her smile was so fragile with age. Her skin was thin and her hands were weathered. Altair tried to figure out if she had been so worn out last year or if age had crept up on her suddenly in these past months. (Maybe it hadn’t been so slow or sneaky but he’d been too ignorant to look.) “I am well,” she said, “I’m always well when I get a chance to see my boys. And look at this beautiful girl. Desmond,” she slapped her hand against his arm. “Marry this girl for me, huh? Let me see something happy soon?”

Desmond smiled because it was reflexive but Lucy glanced at Altair and then back at Mrs. Finch. “Of course,” Lucy said. “Give us a day that’s good for you, Mrs. Finch.”

Mrs. Finch laughed and set London on the table when the puppy’s frantic wiggling for freedom became too much to keep her hands clasped around. London dashed forward toward the plate of cookies but Altair grabbed her before she could get her greedy mouth on them. “It should be in spring. The grounds are beautiful in spring. You would be a beautiful spring bride,” she said, but then, “listen to me! Going on. You’re still children. You have all the time.”

“May,” Desmond said. “The flowers are beautiful in May. We can get married then.”

“I’m going to go for a walk,” Altair said. He stood up and tucked London into his pocket. His intention had been to go for the side door but he found himself hovering next to Mrs. Finch (and her horribly fragile looking face) before he ducked down to wrap his arms around her. She made a surprised noise as she looped her arms around his back and patted his shoulders. He closed his eyes and she stroked his the back of his shoulder as she pressed her cheek against his. 

“You’re a good kid,” she said against his cheek. “Don’t you go off worrying about _me_. I’ll be fine. It’s only a cold.” Altair closed his eyes and tipped his head to kiss her cheek like he did when he was a fat seven year old thanking her for fresh-baked cookies and bandages with cartoon characters on them. When he pulled back she was smiling still, the same impervious smile that had followed him out of this kitchen as long as he could remember. “Remember your scarf,” she said softly, “I know you don’t like the cold.”

“Thanks,” he said. He reached back to pick the scarf up off the back of the chair he was sitting in before heading over to get his heavy coat off the hook by the door. When he looked back, Desmond was talking about the wedding they were planning (all-of-a-sudden) while Lucy helped out with plans for flower-girls.

Altair had worn boots because he knew he was going to be trudging through the snow to his Grandmother’s grave but the cold still snuck in to his toes. London whimpered about being caught in his pocket but barked in protest when he dropped her in the snow (it was deeper than she was tall). He tucked her back into her pocket and he crouched in front of Grandma’s grave. 

“Hi,” he said, “I got some things to tell you.”

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> Desmond’s getting married in May, I expect you to be my date
> 
> I make no promises
> 
> I think Mrs. Finch is dying. I don’t know if I mentioned her.
> 
> She was the cook at the mansion and one of my Nannys.
> 
> She’s been there my entire life. She doesn’t look good but she says it’s a cold.
> 
> People do that, you know, they act like it’s nothing. They pretend that they are just fine.
> 
> Then they die.
> 
> I’m sorry to hear that she is not well
> 
> Me too.
> 
> I’m back at the mansion, the original tub that started my love of baths. This is the one where I was an alligator submarine pilot. 
> 
> London wanted to see what I was doing.
> 
> Good news is she can swim. Bad news is she is hiding from me now.
> 
> Buy her a floaty
> 
> Or teach her to stay out of the bathroom.
> 
> I believe it’s a submarine skipper, captain or CO
> 
> I was seven. Also an alligator
> 
> No reason to be inaccurate.
> 
> Can we play scrabble again?
> 
> Sure. Not tonight. I have to work tomorrow.

“He doesn’t want me to tell him,” Malik said. It was an abrupt conversation in the car after Kadar was out of the backseat and safely in the center of his personal body guard. The thought had been stuck in his head since his Mother’s quiet condemnation. Even if the words were a challenge to her moral guidance, he didn’t look at her when he said it. “He said that he knows _me_ and he doesn’t care what I look like. So he doesn’t want me to tell him who I am.”

Mother’s attention was on getting out of the school parking lot but once she was on the street, she said (very softly), “that is an admirable sentiment. If you have been specifically asked to keep quiet on the subject, it is understandable that you would respect his wishes. The time for you to be honest about this has passed, it passed a very long time ago. I imagine your intentions were self-preservation and that is an instinct that all humans have. When it became apparent to you that your feelings for him had shifted and that his feelings for you had begun to change, that would have been the time to correct him in his perception of you.” 

Malik looked down at his lap. “I want to tell him now. He asked me not to, and I want to tell him more than ever. I don’t want it hanging over my head anymore.”

“If you had told him at the right time, it would have been because you wanted to do the right thing. If you tell him now, it’s only because you want to make yourself feel better. Do you think he is capable of loving you, as he says he is, even after he knows you’re a man?” 

Yes. Like a fire in his chest that hurt far more than it helped, he _believed_ it was possible. It was the thing that had him looking up houses late-at-night when he should have been sleeping. It was the thing that was building a future out of the fragile set of truths they had offered back and forth. Malik cleared his throat rather than answer directly, it bought him a matter of seconds but that was enough to divorce himself from the intensity of that hope. “I think it’s possible.”

“In the situation that you have created,” Mother said, “it is very hard to find what is right. It’s a tangled situation. You can only do what you think is the most correct but not for your own feelings.”

Malik nodded. He looked at her then and found her attention fixed on the road but there was no disapproval in her face or tight unhappiness caught in her fingers around the gear shift. The loosening of that distaste she had for Altair was unusual but he didn’t want to press his luck by asking about it. “Thanks for the advice,” he said.

“You’ll do the right thing,” she assured him. She smiled quick-and-fleeting in his direction. “Even when you lose your way, you always find your way back. I have faith in you.” 

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  _1 file attached_
> 
> I don’t exactly know when your birthday is but I know it’s soon. So I told my protest group that I was pretty sure it was sometime soon and they decided we should sing to you since I had access to your e-mail. I told them that I managed to get through to you through your public website because—well you know why. The point is that this recording is of twenty some people who are genuinely appreciative of your involvement in our cause. Plus me, my Mother and Sass. 
> 
> Happy birthday. Make sure you get yourself something nice.

Kadar invited Stephanie out to get hot chocolate from the coffee shop that wasn’t too far from his house. There was nobody to chaperone their date but since he was telling her how some other girl had confessed her feelings for him, he didn’t imagine that Stephanie would try to jump him. 

“What’s wrong?” Stephanie asked as soon as they were sitting side-by-side on the couch by the faux fire. She was close enough to him that the heat of her body was radiating through their clothes. Every part of her seemed to be concerned about what he wasn’t saying from her eyebrows to her crossed ankles. 

“So the other day, Jenna told me that she really liked me in a not-entirely-friendly way. I didn’t even know what to say to her so I didn’t say _anything_ at first and then I didn’t know how to tell her ‘I’m flattered but no thanks’ so I put it off for a few days but today I told her that she was great but I wasn’t interested. I think she took that okay but I needed to tell you because I didn’t want anyone else to tell you.” Then he stopped talking and braced himself for shouting, screaming, or general flailing of arms. 

Stephanie took in a breath like a shudder and let it out again. Her lips were pressed together as she cleared her throat and said, “well. Why wouldn’t she like you? You’re sweet and smart and considerate. You’re cute,” she motioned at his face, “and _tall_ and you have a great family. You stood up for her. Of course she would like you.”

The whole speech was nothing at all that Kadar expected. He shifted on his side of the couch and waited for the part where all the reasonable statements turned into something mean-spirited. “But I want to be with you,” Kadar said softly. “I didn’t have to get beat up for you to notice me. I don’t—I don’t want someone that only sees me _now_ when I’ve been this same person all this time.”

Stephanie smiled at him and it pushed the dampness that was still clinging to her eyelashes down onto her cheek. “I want to be with you too,” she said. “I don’t stand a chance against a girl like Jenna.” Because Stephanie was skinny and shapeless, like a rubber-band stretched beyond the _perfect_ imagine of a woman. Her face was long-and-narrow and her eyes were brown. 

“Other way around,” he said. “You’re as amazing to me as I hope I am to you. Smart and funny and considerate, understanding— _brave_. I mean, dating me? That takes guts.” He offered a smile and Stephanie laughed like she was trying not to cry and then she leaned her whole body in against side. He put his arm over her shoulders and she picked at bit of lint on his pant leg. Kadar kissed Stephanie’s hair (because he thought, he wanted her to understand what it meant to him that she _bothered_ with him long before it was such a popular idea). 

Stephanie tipped her head up and kissed him. Her mouth was warm and tasted faintly of chocolate and salt. One kiss-was-two kisses and he set down his cup before he dropped it because Stephanie had one hand against his chest and he was cupping her face to kiss her one-more-time before he stopped. 

It wasn’t his own will power but the curt interruption of another patron clearing their throat that stopped him. Kadar felt blush across his face and Stephanie giggled nervously against his chest before she looked over her shoulder at the gentleman that disapproved of teenager public displays of lewd affection. “Oops,” Stephanie said. She put a little more space between them. “How’s your brother? He was pretty sick over break?”

“He’s better. They were mostly worried because he had his spleen removed so he’s really prone to bacterial infections. But he’s better. Did you finish that project?” They fell into the small talk about their _big_ worries until Stephanie’s Mom came to pick her up and give Kadar a ride back to his house. 

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> I think we should have a fanart contest
> 
> but Leonardo can’t enter it
> 
> I don’t think he would even if he could
> 
> You should let me tell you who I am
> 
> Why?
> 
> Because I don’t want you to hate me when you find out
> 
> A while ago now, you asked me to protect you. Appreciate that you did nothing at that point but tell people how awful I was. I went to my Aunt and I asked her to help me make a plan to keep you safe from the vultures
> 
> She told me I was crazy. My entire family thinks I’m insane.
> 
> I trusted you. I’m asking you, now, to trust me
> 
> I’m not good at that
> 
> Try
> 
> It won’t be forever, just for a little while
> 
> This is what you really want?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Fine. 
> 
> How would we judge a fanart contest?
> 
> Well we’d have to give a prompt or something
> 
> I’m curious about how they would draw us
> 
> You need to come up with the rules. I’ll post it on the Sett.

Altair went downstairs long before Desmond and Lucy made it out of bed. He waited in the quiet kitchen for Ms. Finch. When she came, it was on tired feet with a persistent cough that trapped her by the door while she tried to take her coat off. It occupied her whole attention so that she didn’t notice him until it passed and her coat was hanging on the hook by the door. And when her hand fell away from the coat, she had the sad-face of a child caught in a lie. 

“This is only a cold,” Ms. Finch said. 

“Are you going to a good doctor?” he asked. “The best? Not good, but the best.”

Ms. Finch smiled as she shuffled over and pulled out the chair next to him. London was still upstairs, locked in the bathroom of his bedroom so that she wouldn’t get lost under the shelves (again). He couldn’t hear her but he imagined she was whining and scratching a lot at the sudden isolation. Ms. Finch put her hand over his. “I have been seeing the best doctors, Altair. I am an old woman.”

“You have to have family,” Altair said. “Somewhere that is more _home_ than here.”

“I have Mr. Finch and he is here. This is my home. You’re my little finches. You all come home now-and-again to make sure I’m still waiting. So I’ll stay here where I’m needed still, until I can’t stay any longer.”

Altair didn’t expect to cry about it. He had been taken away from this house, away from Mrs. Finch when he was still a child and except for the occasional visit over the years, he hadn’t spent any meaningful time in this kitchen making confessions to this woman. But it _hurt_ the way it had _hurt_ when he knew his Grandmother was dying and nothing (anywhere) could save her. He sighed rather than crying and rubbed his hand against his eye. “Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered, “you can’t tell anyone but I want you to know.”

“Oh, I am very good at secrets,” Mrs. Finch whispered back to him.

“I’m in love,” Altair said. “His name is Malik Al-Sayf and he’s the _biggest_ pain in my ass.”

Mrs. Finch laughed a brief-delighted sound and clapped her hands together before she touched his cheeks on either side. “Oh, you precious boy,” she said to him as her soft hands pinched his cheeks. “You don’t deserve any less. I hope he gives you hell all your life.”

Altair put his hand over hers. “I think he will. I’ll bring him to the wedding,” he said. “So you have to be there.” There was sadness at the edge of her smile. The age on her face was the same as the leaden certainty in his chest. There was no guarantee that she would make it to that wedding, but they were fabulous friends in the morning (before anyone else woke up, when all the best food was made in secret) so she smiled along with his plan. 

“I’ll be there,” she promised.


	57. Chapter 57

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> why would we need seven bedrooms?
> 
> Why would you want to live in a house that could double as a cave?
> 
> You have failed to mention to me that your dreams had limited lighting
> 
> Stop being a jerk I don’t have to talk to you
> 
> You’re very charitable for someone with monochrome dreams of a cramped unlivable dwelling.
> 
> You want to live on waterfront property with enough square footage to fit five of my houses into and a yard that is impossible to maintain
> 
> Landscapers maintain the yard
> 
> YOU ARE FRUSTRATINGLY RICH
> 
> Are you on your phone? You are responding very quickly
> 
> Yes I’m on my phone, I’m at work
> 
> why do we need 7 bedrooms?
> 
> Visiting relatives? Children? Cat playrooms?
> 
> Do you even want children or cats?
> 
> You have a cat and therefore it seems logical to include him in the planning of our future home. I have a dog and thus she must be included. Unless she gets lost under the sofa again. 
> 
> I am ambivalent about children. I’m not in a hurry to sort out whether or not I even want them. 
> 
> You?
> 
> Currently, I do not have the temperament nor the energy to think about children
> 
> Aside from that, I don’t know
> 
> Well, seems pointless to worry about them then. So one of the bedrooms can clearly be converted into a cat playground.
> 
> We don’t need seven bedrooms
> 
> BUT WE DO NEED LIGHT

Malik had a rule about using his phone at work. Of course he had once had a rule about finding men attractive. He’d had one about hating Altair. He’d had a lot of rules that crumbled under the direct, constant, aggravatingly charming attention of the overly-rich, (amazingly built) asshole that he was currently texting under the desk. In between completing tasks that he was assigned, he snuck a minute to respond once or twice.

If he spent some of his free time looking up houses on the computer he was given for actual work purposes, he could convincingly say he was doing market research for the rising price of mortgages. (He wasn’t, but he could be convincing about anyway.) 

Harder to hide was the stupid smile that cut across his face before he tucked his phone back into his pocket and got up to go get a cup of coffee. His Mother was in a meeting (destined to last at least five more minutes) and Donna had gone out to meet someone for a business lunch. Malik went directly to the coffee machine with no intention of being interrupted. 

He stood in the break room, leaning against the counter sipping his delicious steaming coffee (with a touch of hazelnut creamer in it) and let it soak through his whole body like a gentle steam. The combination of the taste and the smell undermined the necessity for speed at returning to his desk so that he was discovered by his Mother who stepped into the room with an almost embarrassed sigh to find him sipping coffee (and day dreaming about building a cat playroom in a ridiculously oversized house by the water). 

“Should I be expecting a coffee pot to show up on our counter?” she asked.

Malik had considered it. “Probably better if we don’t introduce Kadar to this,” he said. “How did your meeting go?”

“It was productive,” Mother said. “How are you feeling? Do you feel excessively tired? You look better.”

“I feel better.” He had been permitted to return to work two days ago but the first day had been akin to torture and the second day had dragged so slowly that he fell asleep an hour after he got home and slept through until the next morning. Today, he was distracted by Altair’s sudden need to choose a house to live in and the delicious aroma of coffee. It was easier to cope with life under those circumstances. “When do you take Kadar to the doctor? Two?”

“Three,” Mother said. “I’ll be back to pick you up from work afterward. Please do not walk home.” Then she finished fetching a water out of the fridge and paused only long enough to say, “do not leave your desk for so long.” Then she was back to her own desk. 

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> Remember when I said your family was going to make me marry Desmond
> 
> Yes
> 
> I really thought it would be the scary Aunt.
> 
> I underestimated the power of the friendly family nanny
> 
> You don’t have to marry him. I think Mrs. Finch is old enough to understand you were playing along
> 
> What did you find out about her? I’m afraid to ask Desmond.
> 
> This really upset him.
> 
> She’s seventy nine years old. There’s a lot going on.
> 
> The primary concern is that her immune system isn’t working correctly
> 
> I’m so sorry Altair.
> 
> Don’t be sorry yet. I still have to tell Mama Maria
> 
> You don’t have to marry Desmond, Lucy.
> 
> I’d do the ceremony part, at least, if it’s important to him and to her. How hard is it to wear a white dress, agree with a priest and eat a bunch of food?
> 
> Was Mama Maria close with her?
> 
> Mama Maria lived with Grandmother in the summers, Mrs. Finch has lived at the house her whole life
> 
> Oh. Someone should tell her soon.

Altair had lingered at the mansion while Desmond and Lucy (and London) went back to the city. They were both late-for-work (a day late even) after sticking around to chat with Mrs. Finch and take up space in her small corner of the grand old house. Altair was there now, watching her blow the steam off the canned-chicken-noodle-soup that he’d heated up for her. Mr. Finch was asleep in the old arm chair in the other room. 

Mrs. Finch smiled up at him when she was finished cooling her soup but the smile withered on her face. “Now don’t look at me that way,” she said, “I can’t handle it if you look at me that way.”

It wasn’t fair (but then again, in Altair’s considerable experience, death was never fair) but he was saying: “they didn’t tell me that my Father was dying. Grandmother told me later that it was too big of an idea for a child to have to carry. I don’t remember him looking sick until the end, and then one day he simply wasn’t there anymore. I didn’t know _then_ that he had already given me up but I know it _now_. Grandmother said it was easier for me and that’s why he gave up, that’s why he didn’t try to take control from her. But when she got sick, everyone said she would be fine. They told me not to worry. They said it was just a cold or just a flu or a silly kind of pain that would pass. I was holding her hand when she died.”

“I know,” Mrs. Finch said softly. “There aren’t a lot of things in this world that can’t be forgotten, but you boys—damned boys—you each have one regret that will follow me to the grave. You screamed for hours, you wouldn’t be soothed. I know. I won’t ever forget.”

“I’ll hold your hand,” Altair said. He swallowed the thickening tightness in his throat. “But please,” his voice cracked on the word, “don’t tell me ‘it’s just a cold’. Please don’t do that.”

Mrs. Finch hand cross the table to rest over his. Her smile was wavering-and-sad, like the dampness caught on her thinning eye lashes. She nodded her head as her fingers tightened around his. “I’m old, much older than Phyllis was. Everything has just started to fall apart in this old body of mine. I think I’ll be around a while still.” He folded forward to press his cheek against the back of her hand and she let out a soft pained noise before she stroked his hair. “You can’t stay here. You have a life out there. You have a man to catch.”

He had Malik and his monochrome dreary-dreams. Altair sighed. “Grandma told me never to fall in love below my social class. She said that path leads to madness.”

“I have a terrible secret to tell you.” Mrs. Finch kept stroking his hair until Altair turned his head to look at her face. Her skin was pink with confidential amusement. “Phyllis wasn’t always right. Money has no heart. The heart has no _social class_. Don’t make her mistakes.”

Altair smiled. “You either,” he said.

\--

son-of-no-one: RT: “notyourbrother: RT: “chaoskitten, so I had sex for the first time with my boyfriend and now he wants it all the time but I don’t. what do I do?” …dump him” (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: at the risk of interjecting into a private conversation, @chaoskitten, before you dump him, try telling him that sex isn’t a priority for you. If he acts like a jerk THEN dump him (1h ago)

Chaoskitten: @son-of-no-one, I did tell him that, and he said that I didn’t like it because it was my first time but it gets easier because I’ll get used to it (45m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @chaoskitten, yeah I’m sorry, go back to that thing that @notyourbrother said: Dump him. Sex should be mutually enjoyable and mutually agreed upon. (30m ago)

Coffee4college: @son-of-no-one, look at you giving out relationship advice on the internet. But @chaoskitten, they are right. If you’re into it, sex is amazing with the right person, at the right time. Dump the jerk. (20m ago)

Sass-Badger: @notyourboyfriend, when did your twitter become answering a bunch of relationship questions and giving out advice about how to tell guys to get lost? (15m ago)

Notyourboyfriend: …you mean when did what I do in the comment section of your sexy Saturday feature follow me here, @sass-badger. By all means, since you have more experience you should answer (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: using that logic @son-of-no-one should be answering. (5m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I would be happy too. Give me a day and time. I can talk about sex for a few hours. (1m ago)

Kadar had never suffered from his brother’s desperate need for perfection and therefore had never (once) suffered from an overabundance of desire to study. His ability to learn had always been sufficient and therefore the level of work he put into his school work was as minimal as possible. It wasn’t that he didn’t want all those things that were important to Malik (a degree, perfection, genius-level-bragging rights) but that he didn’t want them more than he wanted other things. His desire to do well in school was equal to his desire for tacos. Sometimes the tacos won.

“Are you going back to college?” Kadar asked. He was doing what Mother (and his English teacher) liked to call ‘preliminary research’ on possible poets that he could do his final project on. Having Malik for a brother mean he could write an eight page research paper in his sleep but the teacher made it sound daunting nonetheless. The real trouble was that Kadar’s interest in poets was non-existent and he was ignorant enough that he didn’t even know what he didn’t know.

Malik shrugged on his side of the table. “In the fall, probably. I missed spring semester.”

“That didn’t sound convincing,” Kadar said. “Of course, you’re going to marry rich. You don’t have to be smart when you’re the trophy wife.” He sighed over the length of poems and his own inability to understand the delicate beauty of them. 

Malik’s laugh was brief and hard. It cracked and snapped before it ended abruptly. “I’m no trophy. If that’s what he wants, he should stick with Maria. At least she’s pretty to look at.” And like always happened when Malik’s bitterness showed itself, he rubbed at the scars under his shirt. Those ones that discolored his chest across his ribs and just under it. There were dimpled spots where the stitches had pulled the skin shut and a ridge where it healed. The one on his head was hidden by his hair (at last).

“You have a nice butt,” Kadar said.

“Thanks,” Malik said.

“You’re welcome.” Then he groaned at the book. “I don’t care.” He banged his head against the book and tried to soak the knowledge up through his forehead. “When is school over?”

“When you finish graduate school.” Malik threw something at his head that got stuck in his hair. Kadar didn’t get to grow his hair out to the point where it curled into a great fluffy mop but now and again he managed it before Mother noticed and asked him to cut it. With his fingers digging through the thick mess, he had uncharitable thoughts about shaving it all off before he finally managed to dig the stringy paper that Malik had thrown at him. “Quit whining. You have a lot to look forward to. Prom. Graduation.”

“You really weren’t a great example for either of those,” Kadar said. “I realize nobody else you went to school with understood you were belittling them with your speech but I did. And you lost your virginity, sanity and mind at prom. Hey—you should invite Altair to prom. It’d be like getting married on your first date anniversary.”

“He already invited me to a wedding in May.”

Now that was news that Kadar hadn’t heard. “Really?”

“Yeah. He says this is _our_ year and I guess that means he thinks we’re going to meet this year.” Malik made that idea sound so outrageous that it was barely believable. “Stop staring at me.”

“That’s great news,” Kadar said. “If you meet him, he’ll know you’re a man and he’ll prove you wrong by not caring. Then you guys can have better sex and live gaily ever after.” He sat up again and groaned at the book all over again. Malik was blushing on the tops of ears (which meant he was embarrassed but didn’t want to fight about it). “Tell me who to do this report on.”

“No,” Malik said. “It’s your report. No cheating.”

Then Kadar groaned all over again. 

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> What about [this one](http://www.zillow.com/homedetails/58-High-Hill-Cir-Madison-CT-06443/58914434_zpid/)
> 
> That is also huge
> 
> so is my dick but that doesn’t mean you wouldn’t like it
> 
> I honestly have no response to that statement
> 
> Because you’re intimidated about my penis or because I’m right?
> 
> It’s a nice house. The point isn’t that it’s not nice or that I wouldn’t enjoy living in it. The point is most of my life can fit into a single room, sometimes a single suitcase. I just don’t know how you fill a house that big
> 
> As for your dick, I am not intimidated sir
> 
> I spend most of my life living out of a suitcase. We’ll figure out the house thing together
> 
> have you been practicing?
> 
> Practicing what?
> 
> Please don’t answer I just figured it out
> 
> Well?
> 
> I’m not actually answering that.
> 
> Well now I just have to assume that you are
> 
> Assume what you like. 
> 
> Are you alright? I’d hate to insinuate every time you act like an asshole that something is wrong. But you’re on the verge of acting like an asshole
> 
> I have to call my Aunt and tell her about Mrs. Finch
> 
> I’m sorry. Are you still at the mansion?
> 
> I got sent home, I just got here
> 
> Desmond is threatening to put London in the toilet if I don’t come get her
> 
> Go rescue your dog. Pets are good for emotional support.

In the grand kitchen, sitting at the end of the table together, Mrs. Finch ate her hot cereal with delicate little slurps and Altair pushed his around the bowl until it congealed into a thick mush. “Mrs. Finch,” he said (long after he’d failed the sleep the night before thinking it over), “I know you don’t— have, uh, good feelings towards Mama Maria.” That was putting lightly if the furious anger that Mrs. Finch had displayed only a year and a half ago was any indication of her true feelings, “but I think she deserves to know that you’re—not feeling well.” 

Mrs. Finch set down her spoon and wiped her thin lips with the corner of one of the large cloth napkins that Altair found still stashed in the big cupboard by the door. She rested her hands one-on-top the other and let out a low-steady breath through her nose. For an old woman that was close-to-dying, she looked more like a dragon in that moment (ferocious and fiery) than a delicate, paper-skinned woman. “I suppose if you follow that logic, someone should call William as well?”

No. Because William had lost his right to family when he’d decided to use them for money. Because Desmond was _here_ and anywhere that was _safe_ for Desmond was absolutely unwelcoming to _William_ fucking _Miles_. And yet Altair was biting back the furious burn of _instant_ hatred that came at the very mention of that name to say: “Do you want to see William?”

The touch of sadness on Mrs. Finch’s face was nothing in comparison to the odd, shining pride that radiated in her smile. “It’s fair,” she said softly. “If you want to send Maria to me to settle her guilt and say her good-byes, you can’t deny William the same chance. They are equally matched in their own uniquely awful ways.”

“If you want to see William, you should see him. But he’s not welcome to visit this house without someone to watch him while he is here.” Altair sneered at the thought of that man, of him in these hallways. Of him sitting in the kitchen with Mrs. Finch, listening to her talk about the pictures in the old-old photo albums. The years when Edward’s Mother was rolling in the grass with stick-thin Maria while William threw pulled-up grass in their hair. Those long-ago years when Grandfather was still in pictures and his face was more than a gray-scale newsprint of his former self. 

Mrs. Finch laughed at the words. “It would be a very bad thing for you to stand in this room with William Miles, Altair. You are not always a sweet boy and I have heard that you cannot stop once you have started.” There was a gentle reproach in that statement. (Altair was left to wonder if she knew about Leonardo or if she was extrapolating from other events.) 

“I wouldn’t be here,” Altair said. (Oh, because of the _things_ he would _do_ to that man.) “I’d send Federico.” Because Federico was both a blunt object and a precision instrument when it came to dealing with things like William Miles. Because Federico-and-Giovanni had been left alone in a room with the bastard to find out the truth and nobody (anywhere, as far as he knew) had heard from William again. “They should know,” Altair said (that much, at least, he was sure about). 

Then Mrs. Finch only nodded and looked down at her empty bowl and his full one. “You have to eat,” she said. “Do you want to reheat that?”

“No,” he said, “I’ll just get something when I get back to the city. Call me? Tell me how you’re doing.”

“I will call,” Mrs. Finch promised. Then she patted his hand. 

But here, _now_ , he was laying on his bed with London (so recently rescued from Desmond) he was left with the battered sense of impending fate. It was like a raw wound, festering with a fresh sort of pain every time he poked at it. It was not that Mrs. Finch was doing poorly, it wasn’t that she would inevitably die, but that she would die _in that house_ where everyone (it felt like) had died. It was the inevitable disaster, the parade of sincere and insincere well-wishes that would wash through. There had been dozens of visitors at his Grandmother’s sick-bed, every day a dozen more that came to pay their respects to her. They came with sincerity and greedy hands, poking and prodding at her for last-minute-gifts in exchange for their so-called grief. 

(But it was guilt, worse than anything, that he had loved Mrs. Finch like a third parent for thirteen years and then walked away from her without a second thought on the matter for so many years after. He couldn’t remember, lying on his bed, if he had ever missed her in the chaos and hurt that followed his Grandmother’s death. It was that guilt that hurt the worse.)

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Just got caught in the hallway behind a conversation between these two guys
> 
> They were talking about the poster of Altair wearing the skirt, right?
> 
> Apparently he’s “excessively gay” because he wears skirts
> 
> Are you telling me that you started another fight?
> 
> No. I didn’t have to because Ebony and Tara did it for me.
> 
> Well that’s something.
> 
> How’s your knee?
> 
> Sore. Fine. I really need you to invite Altair to this prom.
> 
> I need these guys to see you two.
> 
> NEED, MALIK.
> 
> Why don’t you invite him?
> 
> I’m not sure he’ll come with me but I can try.

Donna happened to catch Malik at the only deli within acceptable walking distance on the only day of the whole week he’d left the office to eat lunch somewhere else. Not only was that a hassle because Donna was the sort of woman that wanted to have casual conversations with near-strangers but Donna had taken the day off (personal reasons) and she had a woman (who had to be her daughter) with her when she located him in the thin crowd at the tables. 

Malik wanted to eat his sandwich and daydream about Kadar taking Altair to prom (and how Mother would probably incinerate the school out of uncontrollable rage) and instead of being able to do that, he was smiling politely at the long-long (unnecessary) drawl of Donna saying, “oh hello, Malik!” It was evident from the emphasis on the hello and his name that she had mentioned him (more than once going by the flinch of embarrassment on the younger woman’s face) to her daughter. “Christine, this is the handsome young man I was telling you about.”

“Oh,” Christine said. If the world were kind, the floor of the deli would have opened up and swallowed all three of them. Instead, Donna smiled encouragingly at her daughter before saying (so naturally) that she was going to go order their sandwiches but she’d be back. Christine was left standing by the chair opposite Malik looking desperately uncomfortable but obviously trying to please her mother out of obligation. “So,” Christine said, “you work with my Mom? That’s…good.”

Malik nodded. She wasn’t looking at him but squinting at the line where her Mom was standing so Malik turned his head enough to look over his shoulder and caught Donna looking innocently forward. He sighed as he turned back around to look at Christine. “I’m gay,” he said. “You can sit down so she’ll stop embarrassing you.”

Christine let out a breath and pulled out the chair opposite him. She dropped into it with a heavy relief and said, “thank you Jesus. I mean—you’re a good looking guy and all just,” Christine rolled her eyes. “I actually have a boyfriend and he’s a good guy. I don’t understand why she won’t just leave it alone.” 

“Mothers want what they think is best for you, I guess,” Malik said.

“Does your Mom try to set you up with guys too?” Christine asked. She pulled her scarf loose and made a flat-frowning-face at her mother over Malik’s shoulder. When she turned her attention back to her, it was with an overly exaggerated interest.

“Not as much,” Malik said. “But she did—does?—favor one of my potential future husbands over the other. _Significantly._ Never mind neither of them are really much of a potential.” 

“Ugh,” Christine said. “Are you out? Can I just let it drop that you’re into guys so she’ll stop trying to set us up?”

“Sure,” Malik said. “Just, wait until I’m not around when you do it.” He packed up his sandwich in the brown bag that they gave him at the counter and tucked his phone back into his pocket before he slid his coat back on. “Nice to meet you,” he said.

“You too,” Christine said. “Good luck with your potential future husbands.”

Malik laughed at that and she waved at him when he went toward the door. 

\--

> ### January 16, 2009: Announcements
> 
> (Guest post written by Son-of-No-One.)
> 
> After such a successful fanfiction contest, it seems only logical that we would now host a _fanart_ contest. Specifically we would like to host a fanart contest where all the artists that are interested try to envision what Sass most _likely_ looks like.
> 
> This is what we know for certain:  
>  Sass has black hair. 
> 
> Now, for the purposes of this contest, no _photo manipulations_ will be accepted. The level of skill and detail that is put into your portraits is not as relevant as creativity. We are asking for a picture that most accurately portrays Sass’ personality along with her unknown physical appearance. 
> 
> Full contest details are on this  page here (that Sass Badger wrote to prevent any confusion). 
> 
> Other news, on January 30, 2009, we will be hosting a special extended version of fun fact Friday during which I, along with coffee4college, Sass-Badger, NotYourBrother, EzioAuditore and MariaThorpe will be answering your embarrassing or not embarrassing sex-questions. Most of the aforementioned individuals will be answering via tweets but Lucy (coffee4college) will be doing the livestream with me. So submit your questions here. 
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: News or Announcement, F: Fun Fact Friday, F: Fanart Contest_   
> 

Kadar did not knock but burst into Malik’s room after nine-thirty at night to shout (loud enough that Mother had to have heard him) “you let that man write a post on your blog!” And then quieter, he hissed, “you _slut_.”

“What?” Malik asked. He had been changing into his pajamas (thus the closed door) and was halfway into a pair of pants with his shirt thrown across the bed behind him. His laptop wasn’t even open (because he’d finished cleaning up Altair’s brief and uninformative post and posting it) but Kadar was eying it like he didn’t understand why it wasn’t. “How does that make me a slut?”

“Oh you know how,” Kadar said. Then he looked at the phone on Malik’s bed and his eyebrows were delighted by the discovery just seconds before he bolted forward to grab it. “You haven’t been on your computer hardly at all.” Malik tried to grab the phone from him and Kadar stepped up onto his bed before he could be caught. He hit the ground on the opposite side as he finished punching in the code to unlock the phone. Kadar had the unique (covetable) ability to run and read at the same time so he was dashing around the bed toward the door while he scanned through the recent contacts on Malik’s phone. 

“I will skin you alive!” Malik shouted as he ran after him. He had to stop long enough to make sure his own pants were going to fall off before he chased Kadar down the stairs. Kadar jumped the bannister at the bottom and Malik had to swerve to avoid stepping on Sailor (who didn’t even care). 

Mother looked up from her book when Kadar ran over behind her chair but didn’t tell them to stop. Kadar was frowning at something he was reading before his eyes lit up with new discovery. 

“Kadar!” Malik shouted at him. “Mom,” he said, “tell him to give me back my phone.”

Kadar rolled his eyes at him. His feelings about Malik cheating and invoking their mother evident in the sad shake of his head. He came out from behind the chair and slapped the phone against Malik’s chest. “But, if you’re going to marry this guy, you could just put him in your phone by his name. MSN contact? That’s not even sly.”

Malik stuck his tongue out at Kadar. “It’s to keep annoying jerks like you that steal my phone from knowing who I’m talking to.”

“Nobody steals your phone but me,” Kadar said as he went back toward the stairs. He stopped long enough to pick Sailor up and the cat tolerated it for a minute before jumping to his freedom and crossing the room to jump onto the window seat. 

He only realized he was shirtless because his Mother motioned at his whole body with a significant sort of hand wave. Malik sighed and went toward the stairs to go finish getting dressed for bed. Of course his stupid brother was sitting on his bed when he got there. “Go away,” Malik said.

“So, he doesn’t want you kissing other people, he’s admitted he’s bi and you’re back to sending him text messages at all hours of the day,” Kadar said (so conversationally). He picked at a bit of lint on his own sleeping pants and tossed it to the floor. “Are you going to tell him the truth now?”

“He doesn’t want me to,” Malik said. “He said he doesn’t care what I look like.”

That seemed to stump Kadar for a breath. Then he just sighed. “Well, he’s a better person now than he was. It’ll work out.” Then he got up. “But seriously, give him a name. Your name is probably in his phone as ‘love of my life xoxoxoxo or something.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “I’ll consider it. Go to bed.”

\--

> **MSN Contact**
> 
> Do I have a name in your phone?
> 
> You’re Sass
> 
> what am I in your phone?
> 
> MSN Contact
> 
> Yeah, I can see that. Very practical of you
> 
> Why aren’t you sleeping?
> 
> I’m really horny and my brother’s still awake so I don’t want to masturbate.
> 
> Why are you awake? Are we in the same time zone?
> 
> if it’s midnight there, we are
> 
> I was worrying about family drama
> 
> I’m sorry. How is Mrs. Finch?
> 
> she says she’s feeling better right now
> 
> but lets go back to the thing where you’re horny
> 
> Let’s not. My brother is awake.
> 
> I have no doubt he’s aware you masturbate
> 
> I don’t care if he knows. He doesn’t need to listen
> 
> Fair enough, I just had to put the dog in the bathroom
> 
> She always just sits there and watches
> 
> Are you masturbating?
> 
> yes I am
> 
> I hate you
> 
> No you don’t. Want a video?
> 
> That’s a long silence, Sass
> 
> I don’t see why I have to respond. 
> 
> I won’t send you this video if you don’t say I can
> 
> Don’t want it?
> 
> I hate you so much. If you made such a video, I wouldn’t not want it.
> 
> Semen tastes disgusting
> 
> Why are you eating your own
> 
> Why?
> 
> I was curious
> 
> Is your brother asleep?
> 
> Yes
> 
> check your e-mail then

Malik was aware that there was nobody in his bedroom to care if he got out of bed with critical, methodical (unhurried) slowness as a demonstration of self control. His door was closed and the house was quiet (finally) and so there was nobody to applaud him on his admirable show of restraint. There was nobody to care when he laid back on his bed and open his computer and made a show of not immediately checking his mail. 

Since there was nobody awake, the internet was speedy and efficient about downloading the video he had been sent. Then he sat there and looked at it for a minute, caught between an acute sting of guilt (since he was a _man_ and there was no telling if Altair’s proclaimed lack of caring covered ‘oops I’m a guy’ or not) but it was drowning in the lava-burn of heady, heartless lust. He hadn’t even clicked on the stupid video and his dick was already insistently hard. 

The video was well-lit (of course it was, Altair had gone on for half a day about the importance of _lighting_ in a home) and surprisingly sharp for being filmed on what appeared to be a webcam. Altair was leaning back against the headboard of his bed (a monstrous, sturdy piece of furniture that was made out of some kind of wood stained a reddish kind of color) with wrinkles on his perfect belly and absolutely no clothes to speak of. One of his legs was bent up and his knee was leaning out to the side. For a moment his face was visible as he frowned at the screen and then he leaned back. “Proper lubrication is essential,” Altair said (like he was narrating a nature film) before he pulled a bottle up from by his pillows. The squelching noise the bottle made when he squeezed it was the sort of sense memory that evoked a bizarre (unhappy) combination of nearly-empty ketchup bottles and every time he’d ever had sex with Leonardo. 

Altair’s body was a magnificent enough sight even before he reached down with his right hand to circle his stupid-long-fingers around his obscenely-oversized cock. He lifted it away from his belly with a contemplative sort of slowness, stroked his hand up and then down once like he was testing out something. His free hand was resting against the inside of his left thigh, just idly rubbing fingertips against the skin there. “You probably won’t believe me, but I haven’t actually ever done this before.” He started stroking his dick (and Malik’s face was flush with an awful combination of confused embarrassment and overheated lust). “The video part. I’ve masturbated before.” 

The video lasted for six minutes, the bastard narrated the minute changes he made as he went from gentle, leisurely stroking to a harder-grip-rougher-jerk before wandering briefly into ‘I can’t figure out if I want to try out butt stuff’ which was the stupidest thing Altair had said in days but his voice was a low-drag of sound with a wet-catch of breath because he was pressing up into his tightened fist at the time. 

Malik had to put the computer to the side (and that pulled at the headphones he was using) so he could get his hand free. It would have been less embarrassing if he had to restart the video (from the four minute mark) but he was more-than-ready to come by the time Altair’s narration ended in favor of tight-noises. The muscles in his thighs were flexing under his warm-tanned-skin when he came and he let out a pant of breath that was the single most lewd noise that Malik had ever heard. The camera didn’t tip up so Malik didn’t get the (surely unforgettable) view of Altair licking his come-streaked fingers but he did get the treat of watching those fingers hover between his dick and his mouth while he contemplated it. 

When he was finished, and the video restarted itself (Malik turned it off with his pinkie which was more or less clean) he laid on his bed feeling a confusing mix of satisfaction and _greedy want_. He turned to look at his phone (surely full of smug messages from the jerk) and then turned back to look at the video frozen on the screen. He decided to get up and clean up first and came back to find that Altair had indeed smugly gloated the entire time.

‘ _Shut up jerk_ ’ was what Malik sent him back, ‘ _I need to sleep now_ ’.

But also, ‘ _good night_ ’.

\--

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> You are still planning to return here at some point, yes?
> 
> Yes
> 
> I sent Malik a video of me masturbating
> 
> Classy as always
> 
> It wasn’t classy. I’m torn between liking the idea that he likes it and taking joy in the knowledge that he still thinks I think he’s a woman
> 
> Don’t toy with him.
> 
> We’ve discussed this. His actions were self-preservation.
> 
> I’m aware.

Lucy was making pulled-pork-barbecue in her kitchen. She was wearing a tank-top (white, no bra) with her fingers greasy-and-disgusting from pulling apart meat and dropping it by shreds into a crockpot. There was an open bottle of beer sitting in front of her on the table and a variety of supplies just beyond reach. “I tried to talk Desmond into doing your sex talk thing—”

Altair was drinking his own beer, sketching the fruit bowl sitting on the table into the sketch book Malik had given him. “That’s never going to happen.”

“I know that _now_ ,” she said, “instead of getting him to talk about sex, he made me promise I wouldn’t talk about his dick. I don’t know how that happened. He’s really good at it though.” She sounded _confused_ but Desmond’s latent manipulative tendencies. Then she sighed and picked up her fork to start pulling apart the next chunk of meat. “So, we were trying to decide if we actually wanted to go through with this wedding for Mrs. Finch sake. But then he got aggravated because he feels like I don’t understand what kind of fuck-storm we’ll be getting into if we go through with it. Apparently, Mama Maria will descend with a small army of planners and our wishes will be irrelevant.”

“Well he’s not wrong,” Altair said. He looked up from adding shadows to see Lucy giving him a flat glare. (Also he could see her breasts almost perfectly under the mostly-sheer tank top.) “I don’t actually know why you’re glaring at me at this point.”

“Look, it’s _my_ fake wedding and I don’t care if it’s not something that I’ve spent most of my life imagining, no haughty Italian dictator is going to just _show up_ and tell _me_ what to do. Unlike you morons that were raised to _fear_ her, I don’t give a shit.” Then Lucy picked up the shredded meat she had viciously pulled to pieces and threw it into the big pot. To add emphasis to the statement, she took a long drink of her beer and set it down again.

Altair snorted at that. “The important problem is that I thought you didn’t want someone else making the decision that you needed to get married for you?” 

At that, Lucy shrugged. Her anger didn’t abate but shift into something heavy. “My Grandma died while I was busy showing how much I didn’t need my parents. I wasn’t there to see her; I didn’t give her the time that she deserved.” Lucy shrugged. “I don’t mind dressing up for her, if it’s important. When I marry Desmond for real, it’ll be how we want. That’s what’s important. I was the star of two high school productions. I can act.” 

“Well I can’t,” Altair said. He turned his attention back to his sketch. “If you do get married in May, I’m bringing Sass as my date.”

“Well then I have to,” Lucy said. She finished pulling all the meat apart and looked around on the floor like she’d dropped something? “Where’s the dog?”

“In my pocket,” Altair said. He had kept the hoodie on so he could put London in it when she got annoying biting at his pant leg and barking for attention. She had fallen asleep in the hoodie pocket ten minutes ago. Altair straightened up again and dropped his pencil on the page he’d been drawing on before leaning back against the chair back. “So who is coming to this big barbecue party?”

“My friends,” Lucy said. “They don’t usually come over here, so I just need someone to keep Desmond from disappearing.” She set her beer down again and said, “bring the dog. They’ll love the dog.” Then she made a growling noise at the food. “I don’t know if this is enough. I hate parties. Why do I host parties? I hate parties.” The conversation devolved into worries over plates and side dishes while Altair tried to be reassuring. (He did not point out that most parties he attended were catered by professionals. But he thought it many times.)

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Hell is freezing over
> 
> Why?
> 
> I just found out that Mom’s going on vacation
> 
> Oh
> 
> OH? OH MALIK? Our mother hasn’t voluntarily left our house for longer than the time it takes to go to work since you were born. You cannot brush this off. Where is she going? Why is she going?
> 
> Her friend is taking her to some kind of resort hotel thing to be pampered. Apparently they insisted.
> 
> So Mom’s leaving us alone for six days
> 
> So we have a 5 day window to do something reckless and dumb
> 
> Are all teenagers like you?
> 
> No, some teenagers develop eating disorders, hate themselves and fuck skinny celebrities on their prom night
> 
> You have to let that go
> 
> I am inviting Altair to my prom
> 
> Ok but Stephanie will be disappointed
> 
> she’ll understand

“What are you grinning at?” Stephanie asked. They were situated in the corner of the cafeteria, flanked on all sides by the growing army of protestors wearing his shirt. The central girls were wearing sweat pants (all saying _dress code violation_ while most of the supporters that were late additions wore their usual jeans. There was talk about the final push for the school board to really look over the dress code and how violates were treated but Stephanie was sweeping her fingers through her hair as she looked at him-not-them. 

“Talking to my brother,” Kadar said. He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “Hey, is it too early to ask about prom?” His lunch was long-gone and the snacks that he stashed into his bag had already been hurried eaten between classes (or in classes, in the gaps of the teacher paying attention to him). 

Stephanie smiled. “I don’t think so,” she said. “Did you want to go to prom together?” The words were hesitant and playful, as if she were making it easy for him to make a joke of it. 

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “I mean, I was going to invite this other guy as my date but—”

Stephanie’s laugh interrupted him. The noise drew the attention of the ducked-heads of the presentation team that was going to the school board meeting (in three days!) and Kadar mumbled an apology before they could accuse him of not taking the matter seriously. He had written almost all of their proposal so his contribution couldn’t be denied. (Just public speaking, it wasn’t his thing, and the girls had a much stronger case considering most of them had been shamed for their clothes.)

“I want to go with you,” Kadar whispered to her. Stephanie tipped her head toward him and whispered, “I want to go with you too.” Her fingers laced through his and he thought about kissing her but they were being watched by the girls in the group. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> I like [this one](http://www.realtor.com/realestateandhomes-detail/17-Crestview-Dr_Madison_CT_06443_M34052-81224)
> 
> That is a nice house. 
> 
> I don’t want to have to be gracious, I don’t want to let William near my Grandmother’s house. I don’t want Mrs. Finch to care about him. I don’t want his disgusting face anywhere near her. Every part of me wants to find a way to keep it from happening.
> 
> I don’t know who William is
> 
> William is Desmond’s father
> 
> Then its understandable how you feel
> 
> I like the porch on this house. It’s bigger than I thought you’d like.
> 
> so you simply wanted to mention the problem and then ignore it?
> 
> The problem is that I don’t want this to happen. It’s not my choice. It’s Mrs. Finch’s choice.
> 
> This time I can’t have what I want
> 
> That’s usually the worst feeling in the world
> 
> It’s becoming distressingly common in my life.
> 
> Jokes and daydreams aside, are you going to let me meet you?
> 
> I don’t think you’ll like what you find
> 
> I got that feeling; I’ll figure out a way to make you change your mind.
> 
> Or you could just let me tell you who I am
> 
> It’s interesting that you have avoided telling me who you are to the point that you still avoid mentioning anything about your physical person but you want to tell me now.
> 
> I have trouble believing you would love me but I don’t want to meet you and have to see you not want me
> 
> I want you to trust me that I don’t care what you look like.
> 
> Your frustrating
> 
> *you’re
> 
> The feeling is mutual.
> 
> I got a question
> 
> What?
> 
> You said in an e-mail you did torture yourself for the things you couldn’t change, what did you mean?
> 
> I wasn’t kind to myself when I was a teenager. Nothing physical, I don’t have scars from that or anything
> 
> Hey
> 
> What?
> 
> I love you. I’m going to make you believe it.
> 
> I love you
> 
> Good luck

“Malik,” Kadar said. He was shuffling on the long drag of his pant legs, rubbing his fist into his eye like an oversized toddler as he yawned out Malik’s name in protest. He motioned at Malik’s whole body with his two hands until space was made on the couch for him. Then Kadar dropped down to sit at his side and squinted at the TV (muted to keep others from being woken up the noise). “It’s three in the morning, you’re watching infomercials with no sound. What happened?”

“I want him to love me,” Malik said, “that’s so stupid isn’t it? I want this to work out how thinks it will—I want him to see me and I’m not the guy that ruined his life but… _Sass_ , this person that he loves. This person he talks to about his family and where to live and how he feels about dog food and whatever other crap we end up talking about. He has _permanent tattoos_ on his body for me. That’s _insane_. But I want him to look at me, and see _me_ and still love me.” The words had been circling his head like a scream but they came out in short, stunted sounds. Each of them etched out of his throat and still no louder than a stage whisper. 

Kadar yawned again and looked sorry about it. Then he slapped his hand over Malik’s where it was resting on his leg. His shoulder was pressed against Malik’s so when he turned his head, it was too close to really look at him without making his own head hurt. “I know you have trouble remembering it, but you’re surrounded by people that love you. You didn’t ruin Altair’s life, he didn’t ruin yours. The odds that he loves you exactly the way he says he does, are largely in _his_ favor, not yours. I don’t believe in fate, Malik. But there’s still a reason you met him that night, there’s a reason he freed you from the hell-prison you put yourself in, there’s a reason you decided to blame him for your life, a reason he found your blog and there’s a reason he fell in love with you. The problem isn’t that he can’t love you. It’s that you can’t accept that he does.”

“There’s— There’s nothing _good enough_ about me for him,” Malik said. “What do I have?”

Kadar rolled his eyes and knocked his head into Malik’s. It loosened up the despair that was settling in his chest. “The poor bastard’s heart, and probably his balls, in your greedy fist. Trust good things happen—even to you.” Then he let go of Malik’s hand and yawned again. “I’m going to get some popcorn, find us a movie worth watching.” Malik watched him get back to his feet, watched the weak give of his still-healing knee when he first put pressure on it and then sighed down at his phone (resting on his lap). 

“You should go back to bed,” Malik said.

“Sleep is for the weak,” Kadar shouted back. “Do you want sugar for your popcorn?”

Of course he did. Malik didn’t answer but Kadar brought him his own bag of popcorn and the sugar anyway. They sat up until Mother woke up (for prayer) watching the dumbest action movies they owned.


	58. Chapter 58

> Dear Malik,  
>  So it occurs to me as I sit here in this fluffy cream-and-pinkish skirt that I have absolutely no idea what your real opinion about me wearing skirts is. For all I know your only intention in making me wear dresses last January was to humiliate me. You could have spent the entire time laughing at me for how ridiculous I looked. In self-defense I seem to have simply assumed that your motives were far more selfish and fetish-motivated. For better or worse, Maria seems to enjoy me wearing this skirt. She keeps fluffing up the layers of it and telling me that it’s really hot. I can’t figure out if that’s because aside from this skirt, I’m practically naked. Or if it’s because (as this photographer person explained to me) it strips me of my ‘presumed masculine dominance’ and leaves me ‘vulnerable, and therefore sexy as hell’. I’m not a master of deciphering cryptic messages but I’m pretty sure that means I put on a skirt and now people can imagine fucking me. I mean, whatever works. I’m not sold on the idea that I want anyone fucking me. Especially not strange lesbian photographers that have probably had sex with Maria. They keep exchanging glances and making half-noises.

“Which of the many languages that you allegedly know are you currently writing in?” Maria asked. She was wearing a suit, covered from neck to toes while he was sitting around in a fluffy skirt that sometimes made it all the way to his knees (depending on how they pinned it up). Her hair was pulled back from her face in a severe way that made her face seem sharp-and- _mean_ (or superior) highlighted by the faint make-up that removed the feminine softness Maria worked very hard to maintain. 

“One that you cannot read,” Altair said. He flipped the book shut and sat back in the chair they’d given him when they announced the break. “Did you fuck the photographer?”

Maria looked over her shoulder at where the woman in question was standing talking to her assistants about the lighting. Then she looked back at him. “Not as often as you might think. She wants more than a convenient arrangement.” Then Maria sighed. “How’re your knees? Must be hard for you to do all this kneeling.”

That was bait that Altair just wasn’t going to take. “Would you date her? I mean, if you were out?”

“I appall the maturity that you are attempting to cultivate. Since you didn’t respond to my question, I would like to offer you the solemn advice that you should practice getting on your knees because if your real girlfriend likes it half as much as I do, you’ll be there quite a lot.” Everything about her face, the lean of her body, the tone of her words was the exact sentiment that this photographer was trying to capture. The whole photoshoot was set up to ‘flip gender expectations and make the viewers uncomfortable so they have to confront what makes them uncomfortable about a woman in a dominant position and a man submitting to her’ and he might never met a woman so perfect for the role as Maria was in that _exact second_. Right down to the way her hand slid around his face and her thumb pulled at his lower lip like she was thinking about-sticking-her-dick-in his mouth. 

Altair stood up and the advantage of his height did nothing to even out the power she had in that moment. “Stop calling him a girl,” Altair whispered. “I asked you to stop.”

“Do you think you’ll enjoy giving oral sex to a man as you have with women?” Maria asked. There was no smile on her face when she asked the question but a small quirk of cleverness stuck at the very edge of her lips. Her eyes were bright with triumph. Then she shook her head. “I will stop antagonizing you. Lina wants you to look soft and sweet, you’ve gone stone faced.”

“I don’t see why I wouldn’t,” Altair said when he could unhinge his jaw far enough to manage it. His phone went off before he could think of anything else to say and when he picked it up, Maria adopted a casual but impatient stance at his side. “Desmond hates the dog,” Altair said. The text was relaying all the ways that London had ruined the day from her insistent barking to the tiny puddles she left on the floor when her needs weren’t met in a timely manner. She didn’t like the food she was given and she couldn’t sleep if she wasn’t wrapped up in a blanket. “He really hates this dog.”

Maria laughed at that. “Well, I thought you would too. But then you didn’t. When are you going to get the next part of your tattoo done?”

“Twenty-eighth, then I have to fly home to meet Lucy for the sex thing,” Altair sent back a message that consisted (more or less) of telling Desmond to stop picking on his dog. By the time he’d finished that, they were being called back to finish the shoot.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt as much this time
> 
> How does it look?
> 
> Pink. Very pink
> 
> Will you send me a picture?
> 
> Of course. Probably not until after Friday.
> 
> I’m flying home in a few hours and then I’ll probably be unconscious.
> 
> Good luck with both

When Malik was still in elementary school, he had been friends with a boy who was sure that his mother was some sort of super-human with actual eyeballs in the back of her head and super-sonic hearing. It seemed (to this boy, Todd?) that his Mother knew _everything_ that he’d ever done and always seemed to be there to catch him misbehaving. The idea had seemed ludicrous to Malik. While his own Mother was not superhuman, she did seem perpetually unsurprised to discover his small civil disobediences. 

Mother did not raise her voice to him. Mother did not hit him. Despite this boggling lack of discipline (as perceived by some of his more physically minded friends as a child), her disapproval of his misbehavior had been a singular force of _nature_. It was not because he was frightened of her. It was not because she had insisted that she was _superior_ and the center of _moral correctness_ but because she had proven with her patience, her kindness and her _consistent_ morality that she was a person (not just a mother) that deserved to be respected. 

Malik had never quite under the full implications of his Mother’s smooth-temper. It had been every moment of his life as long as he could remember. There were hiccups now and again, a harshly spoken word or a quiet anger that took a day too long to resolve itself. Those were minor moments, hardly worth note in the grand scope of his life. 

Kadar had remarked to him, when they were kids, ‘ _you must be like Dad was. Mom and me, we don’t get angry but you don’t ever stop._ ’ But the few memories of Malik had of his father, the man was not the fire-breathing-dragon that Malik could be. Everything about him was alien in comparison to his family.

But, then—again, it was:

Donna in the breakroom, nibbling daintily on a scone and sipping serenely at her Starbucks coffee. Malik was a touch-too-tired after staying up late looking for coffee to keep him away for the mid-morning lull. “Good morning, Donna,” he said because she’d gone on for about two hours about ‘call me Donna’. He picked up one of the paper cups out of the pile and set it on the counter before looking for the filters to make a fresh pot of coffee (since he’d be taking the last of it).

“It’s Mrs. Jefferies.” 

Malik looked over his shoulder at her to gauge if she was speaking in jest and found her dusting her crumbs off the table with smooth, sharp strokes of her palm across the surface. When she was done she dusted them into the empty bag she’d brought in with her with the air of a woman disposing of vile trash. The instinct curl of worry that struck through his body did not seem so out of place when that same look was leveled at him. 

Everywhere on his body was hot-and-yet-cold. He looked at the coffee cup he’d set on the counter rather than maintain eye-contact with the woman. She rose out of her seat and walked past him with a smart clap of her heels against the wooden floors. The trash can rattled when she threw her things away. Malik was concentrated so hard on pouring coffee and being innocuous (trying to convince himself that Donna was just being her usual changeable self and it had nothing to do with her daughter or how Malik was gay) that he didn’t notice that she hadn’t left. It wasn’t until he reached to the side to pick up the sugar that he noticed she was _still standing there_. 

“Yes?” he asked.

“Do you have my copies?” she asked. “I assume that they must be on my desk if you’re taking a break.”

They weren’t on her desk, but that was possibly because everyone in the office had decided that they needed a hundred copies of everything. He had made his way through the requests based on greatest need. Donna’s request was not even the next on the pile, more like the third or fourth. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “There were several copy requests, I should have yours in the next half an hour.” Malik could point out that he was a temporary solution and this was a job that he didn’t even want but he didn’t think Donna cared or thought he was particularly helpful at the moment. 

“Then why are you _in here_?” Donna asked. “I realize that your Mother hired you despite your lack of qualifications but I thought that despite your lack of proper experience you would have a similar work ethic.” Every word was _venomous spite_ so that there was no point in trying to think of anything he might have done to deserve it. 

“You were not the first request and yours was not a priority,” Malik said. “You’re welcome to use the copier if you would like them immediately.”

Donna rolled her eyes at him. “Spare me your excuses,” she said with her hand up in the air between her and him. “It’s amazing your mother can admit to having a son like you.”

Malik’s face was red and his hand was curled into a fist at his side, “because I didn’t copy your papers first?” he asked.

“You know _why_ ,” Donna hissed at him. “I thought your people dealt with men like you more _decisively_.” The words were quiet enough that they couldn’t have been heard beyond the door of the break room. They were sharpened to a precise point, fashioned to deliver the maximum damage. 

There was a storm of words in his head (a thousand worthwhile things to mention about ‘his people’ and ‘men like him’ and maybe one or two things about women like her) but there was a sudden tightness in his throat that choked him into stunned silence. He looked down-and-sideways toward the sugar that he’d been reaching for before. 

“That is because you an ignorant woman,” his Mother said. Her voice was abrupt and intrusive. Malik looked up in time to see Donna spin around to face Mother. Mother’s face was perfectly composed, she was carrying her own cup (used to drink water the whole of the day) and a pack of papers held shut with a clip. “Like most purposefully ignorant individuals, instead of attempting education, you cower behind thin morals and out of context quips from your holy book to defend your godless actions. More important than your Bible and your shallow morals, _Mrs. Jefferies_ , are the passages in our employee handbook that you seem to have forgotten in your haste to harass and shame a member of our staff. I believe if you were to take a moment to skim through the handbook again you will notice there is entire passage expressly forbidding _any_ discrimination.” Mother reached forward to set down her cup with a gentle clip of noise. Mother did not wear heals and she was barely five foot four. She was thin as a weed. Donna was tall-and-big and still leaning back when Mother leaned in toward her. “More impressively still is that you thought you could bully _my child_ and I wouldn’t know about it. You have an hour to prepare a defense for your reprehensible behavior. Mr. Jacobs likes to consider all sides of the problem before he makes final decisions.” 

Donna said, “I expected more from you, Lamah.”

“Ignorant women often do,” Mother said with a smile. “You should go, I know it takes you a while to produce a worthwhile product.”

Donna left with a hurry of heels. Mother turned her head to watch her go and then looked back at him with a mix of stalled-out-fury and concern. Malik drew a breath in through his nose and tried to work out if he wanted to apologize for the confrontation or thank her for the defense. Mother beat him to speaking when she stepped close enough to get her fingers under his chin and pushed his head back up. “You are _my_ son and no _son of mine_ has any reason to hang his head. There is no reason to show shame when you have done nothing shameful.” The words were almost as hard and sharp as the ones she’d used against Donna but the tone went soft at the end, “are you okay?”

Malik sighed. “Can you fire people?”

“I have worked in this office for sixteen years, Malik. There is no employee here, save for Mr. Jacobs himself that has been here half that long. If I ask him to fire this woman and list my reasons, she will be gone.”

“Is that legal?”

“Yes. Discrimination and harassment are grounds for immediate dismissal,” Lamah said. “Go back to your desk. You can’t leave it for so long. I’ll bring you coffee.”

Malik went and hovered indecisively between sending a text about the events and just going back to work and waiting to think through what had happened for later. He sighed and picked up the next paper on the stack that needed copying. He was smiling to himself (playing back every-word-Mother-said) while he stapled the two-page forms together as they came out of the copy machine. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I’m with your mother. Who would be stupid enough to say something to you at the office?
> 
> People that want to be unemployed
> 
> Kadar said I must be rubbing off on her
> 
> I have met your Mother, and while she is outwardly very calm and very sweet
> 
> There is no doubt that you are very much like her. She is a woman of deep, unmoving conviction who holds herself to very strict morals. You’re not so different, just not as sure yet.
> 
> I can only aspire to be my Mother
> 
> What are you doing?
> 
> I am looking up the weather in California this time of year
> 
> I’ve been invited to visit again.
> 
> Are you going to go?
> 
> A rich, handsome, sexually satisfying man is paying for me to travel somewhere with constant sunshine.
> 
> Yes. But you don’t sound as excited as normal
> 
> I told him I wouldn’t come out there on the fourteenth.
> 
> was he upset about that?
> 
> No. 
> 
> But now if I go I have to reschedule other obligations
> 
> are they more important than sex with hot rich guys?
> 
> Nothing is.

Kadar had his own computer ready for the Fun Facts Friday event. They had requisitioned the dining room table back from the protest that had eaten it. Everything was filed in the cardboard boxes that they’d had to buy to store all the papers in. They were sitting side-by-side with Malik’s computer on the livestream and Kadar’s open to google and twitter in case research was necessary. 

The livestream started with a crackle of noise before the picture cleared into Lucy tugging off what appeared to be an apron and throwing it to the side. She looked back at the camera with a smile and said, ‘he’s on his way, get over here!’ And when he was close enough that she was looking at him (still off camera) she rolled her eyes and scooted over on the couch. ‘I cannot believe you are wearing that.’

Altair sat down next to her with his dog cradled in one of his hands, wearing a stupid tank-top with oversized sleeves that had the word ‘big’ over the silhouette of a rooster. ‘Hello and welcome to this very special Fun Fact Friday—’

Kadar squinted at the screen for a breath before he tipped his head back and laughed. His hands were up against his chest as he laughed obnoxiously. Malik sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. The asshole was sitting there with a fluffy dog wearing a pink sweater wearing a big cock shirt explaining how he was going to talk about sex for two hours. “I literally hate everything about him,” Malik said. “Who—look at him.”

“I’m not gay,” Kadar whispered to his brother. “I am looking at him but I’m pretty sure we’re seeing different things. On the one hand that shirt is clearly truth in advertising and on the other hand it’s kind of douche-y? Sailor is going to eat that dog if it doesn’t get bigger.”

Lucy was reading the first question: _I’ve been with my boyfriend for almost a year now and we have been having sex for a few months. He likes to talk about how large and impressive his penis is, but when I try to tell him that it’s not working for me, he tells me that it’s because my vag is ‘too big’_. And when she finished reading it she looked at the camera with a flat expression, entirely unimpressed by what she’d read. Then she sighed. 

Altair looked amused, ‘ok,’ he said to Lucy, ‘I know that your instinct here is to trash talk the guy and I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve it but let’s be realistic and say that not all vaginas are the same.’

‘Look,’ Lucy said to the camera, ‘unless he is literally the most handsome, wonderful, caring individual in the world who likes to compliment his own penis during sex and only during sex—just get rid of him. Anyone who is that obsessed with their own penis and _obviously_ unconcerned with your satisfaction is not worth the effort.’

“I really like Lucy’s arms,” Kadar said. “I mean I’m aware you’re just staring at Altair’s stupid face and having wet daydreams about _his_ arms but look at Lucy’s. She is so well toned.”

Altair picked up the next card and held it up, he cleared his throat and said, ‘why can’t I orgasm during sex? I do alright on my own.’ Then he set the card down again, ‘here’s what you need to do. Next time you’re having sex with a guy, make sure you introduce them to your clitoris. Some guys actually don’t know that’s a thing. If that fails to make a positive change, bring out your vibrator.’

Lucy was snorting. ‘That is an excellent point. There’s more than one reason why you can’t have an orgasm with a partner though. Manual stimulation doesn’t always work.’

‘It has never failed for me,’ Altair retorted. 

Lucy slapped him on the back of the head (affectionately) and started in on a lecture about being comfortable with your partner and your sex life and how emotions and psychology could affect your sexual experience. Kadar went from listening to sitting conspicuously still and by the time Lucy finished talking his entire face was a light shade of red and he said, “I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Just remember proper lubrication is important,” Malik said. “Altair told me about it.”

“I hate you,” Kadar mumbled as he got up to his feet. Mother was in the living room (reading) so Kadar shoved both his fists into his pockets as he went through the living room with an attempt at casual that was poorly executed. He all but ran up the stairs once he got to the bottom step. 

‘What is a dental dam?’ Lucy was asking. She stared pointedly at Altair who was making a production out of wondering why he was being stared at. ‘Oh shut up, everyone who reads the Sett knows you go down on everyone you can. What’s a dental dam?’ Altair was laughing too hard to answer it. When he stopped long enough to catch his breath, Lucy had already started explaining it. 

Kadar came back around the time they were talking about ‘why would girls even do anal’. He managed to make it the rest of the way through the torture of two hours of listening to Altair speak intelligently about sex and sexuality. But when it was done, he sat back against the chair and let out a breath like he was _dying_ , “I realize you weren’t a normal teenager but how often did you masturbate? At this point I feel like it’s becoming a full-time occupation. Does this go away? Does it get less distracting?”

“I’ll let you know if it does,” Malik said. “Are you going to the bathroom again?”

“Only because you have this thing about not masturbating in your room while I’m in mine,” Kadar mumbled. Then he got back up to his feet. 

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> I can’t take it anymore. It’s been two days. Not even one single comment?
> 
> We’ve had several conversations in the past two days.
> 
> My favorite was the one where you tried to figure out if lambs were too cute to eat or too delicious to let live.
> 
> Lamb is good I can’t believe I wore that shirt just for you and not even one comment
> 
> I find that ignoring childish behavior is the easiest method to correct it.
> 
> So you liked it
> 
> I’m sure you did. You promised me a picture of your tattoo.
> 
> I’d be more interested in that than your arrogant shirts.
> 
> Oh fine. I’ll send it to your e-mail.

Desmond was not one hundred percent sure how he’d ended up taking pictures of Altair (shirtless) in a variety of places in his home. It was most likely due to the camera’s failure to pick up the detail in the colors. They ended up by the large windows, with the most natural light they had at their disposal. 

“How are you going to get this girl to meet you?” Desmond asked. He hit the review button on the camera and held it out to Altair so he could flip through the options to see if one of them was good enough to share. It was more care than he’d put into sending a picture to anyone but the tattoo was worth the effort on its own. It was a watercolor style, the pinks were vibrant in places, the greens of the stems seemed diffuse (at the moment) and the artistry of the whole thing was _powerful_ to look at. The fact that it was ‘not finished yet’ was mind boggling when considering how amazing it already was. 

Altair made a rude noise as he looked over the photographs. “I think it might take an act of God.”

“Have you asked?” Desmond asked. He waited until Altair stopped flipping through the pictures and settled on one before he left the windows to go back to his breakfast (by now, most likely cold and unappetizing). “I hear it’s easier to get things that you want if you ask.”

“That’s not always the case. Lucy keeps asking to fuck you in the butt and you still haven’t done that,” Altair retorted. He followed Desmond to the kitchen where the obnoxious fur ball was asleep in the little crate that Lucy had bought for her. It was covered in a thick blanket with a plush pillow for the hateful beast to sleep on. She was content inside of it the way she was otherwise only happy in Altair’s stupid pocket. 

“Did you let Maria?” Desmond asked. 

“No.” Altair sat down in his seat and pulled his computer over toward him. There was a cord to connect the camera to the computer (that was easier than messing with the SD card). “I did go down on her though.” That wasn’t surprising to anyone. “That’s not the problem anyway. Sass doesn’t believe me when I told—uh, her that I didn’t need to know who she was. Apparently, I can’t love her based on her personality alone.” Altair was paying more attention to the computer screen than Desmond. Every other word he said was a drag of hesitation or distraction. 

“That doesn’t sound like an act of God problem. That sounds like a ‘prove you’re sincere’ problem. I realize that, for you, it’s practically the same thing. But in the real world, it’s actually not.” Desmond picked up his plate and put it in the microwave to heat it up enough it was edible again. The dog heard the sound of the microwave door opening and came out of her hiding place to bark at his feet over a sudden intense hunger. “No,” Desmond said.

“You say that because you do not understand that this person’s problem with believing I can’t love them has nothing to do with me.”

Of course it didn’t. “Altair. You’re almost my brother. I have known you a long time. I love you. But you’re an asshole about sixty percent of the time. I don’t doubt your loyalty for a moment. I know that despite your stupid actions and your flippant statements that what you _feel_ is real and most likely eternal. But, you’re also an asshole. You want this person to understand that you’re willing to do whatever it takes to prove that you mean it—and I am saying this only based on what I’ve seen Sass ask you to do before—I imagine you’ll have to set aside your pride and be ready to complete whatever incredibly insane task you are given.”

Altair looked up from the screen. “Why? Why do I have to do the potentially humiliating task to prove how serious I am while Sass gets to decide if it’s good enough? Why doesn’t Sass have to prove how serious she is?”

The microwave beeped and Desmond hit the button to open the door. “Do you doubt that she’s serious?”

“No.”

“That’s a good reason. Also consider that you have all the power, here, Altair. Don’t look at me like that.” Altair was on the verge of protesting. It was on the tip of his tongue and caught in the tight knit of his furrowed eyebrows. “You have all the money, you have the media, you have the lawyers, you have the followers on your twitter, you have every, _single_ advantage. The _only_ power that this woman has is her identity. Humble yourself for her if that’s what it takes because you’ll _never_ make this even. You’ll always have the power to destroy her.”

The indignation on Altair’s face did not ease away quickly but fade by degrees, slowly relaxing into something more thoughtful. “Do you think I’ll end up like Grandma?”

Desmond dropped his plate back on the table (after dodging the puppy on his way from the counter to his seat) and sat down. “I think there’s that potential. There’s probably that potential in all of us.”

Altair sighed. “I don’t think there’s that potential in you.” Then he finished sending the picture and closed the laptop. London was barking at his chair, trying to jump up against the bar and falling over with every attempt. Altair leaned down to pick her up. He held her against his chest and she did her best to climb up to his shoulder. “I’m going to walk the dog before we go to the gym,” Altair said. 

“I’ll eat,” Desmond said. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> So what are you feelings about Valentine’s Day?
> 
> Meaningless, hollow, compulsory non-holiday
> 
> Ok but can we have sex?
> 
> It says a lot about our possible, future sex life that you’re already anticipating we don’t have sex except on Hallmark holidays
> 
> Can we have kinky sex?
> 
> Like what?
> 
> I didn’t have a specific suggestion.
> 
> Unless the thing where I wear skirts is some kind of fetish thing
> 
> Well it wasn’t
> 
> Is it now?
> 
> I’m not sure it would qualify as kinky.
> 
> Kinky is more like, I tied you to the headboard and blindfolded you
> 
> I don’t think I was expecting that.
> 
> But I’m intrigued.
> 
> Great. It’ll be our date next Valentine’s Day

Malik had waited (far longer than) a week before he finally went to his Mother’s office. He didn’t drag his feet because he was a reflection of her efforts as a parent. He didn’t shrink away from what he had come to say (the way he hadn’t decided to have the conversation in their kitchen where it was safe from any professional repercussions). He had prepared a speech about his intentions and a defense against the implication that he had made a choice in haste due to the increased chatter about his sexual orientation and his Mother’s unexpected protectiveness of him. (To be fair, he had not yet fully worked through what had happened beyond a blossoming of warmth in his chest that seemed to make his days easier.) 

“Yes?” Mother asked when she looked up from her paperwork. 

“I’m resigning,” Malik said. The words were carefully chosen, in the shower, mumbled in between water drops. _I want to resign_ had been his leading choice until he tried to imagine her face reacting to the weakness in the words. _I want_ was asking permission and his intention was not to give her the chance to deny him. “This was meant to be a temporary situation. This is not a profession that I enjoy or that I wish to pursue. There are better candidates that would do a much more thorough and enthusiastic job in my place.”

Mother put her hands one-on-top the other as she looked at him. “Yes, I suppose that is true. Will you be giving us two weeks to find a replacement or is your resignation immediate?”

Kadar’s was boiling plans for disobedience in his brain that was going to drag Malik away from work (he was sure of it) and while it seemed as if his Mother would be disappointed in his choice to fail to provide two weeks’ notice (as was the accepted practice) it seemed as if it would be worse if he said two weeks and then did not show for the second one. Malik did not take a nervous breath or toy with his pocket but say, “I can give one week.”

Mother was suspicious but she did not ask him what he was doing next week that would prevent him from working while she was away. Rather, she nodded her head. “Considering recent events and the circumstances of your employment at the start, one week is fair.” Then she picked up her pen to resume her work. 

Malik nodded at her even if she wasn’t looking at him and turned to leave. A brief noise interrupted his departure, he looked back at her, “yes?”

“If you do not have a job, I expect that you’ll be going back to school.” That was his _Mother_ , not his _boss_. She looked at him briefly to be sure that she was understood and when he nodded, she nodded back before looking at her papers again. 

\--

> FROM: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]
> 
> I don’t spend all my time hating things that make other people happy as long as whatever it is does not actually hurt anyone. I don’t care if Hallmark manufactured this holiday to sell cards because it makes some people genuinely happy to know that they are loved and to have a day where they are given chocolate and flowers to act like a little bit of proof of that love. I don’t think anything should be compulsory but if I want to show up and give my girlfriend some flowers and take her out for high class tacos, I really don’t want to have to listen to Sass lecture me about how I’m selling out to soulless corporations that are brain-washing people into thinking they need this to be happy.
> 
> My knee is mostly fine. Sometimes it hurts but most of the time it’s the same reliable knee it was before.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  I did ask Sass already but thank you. What about you? Are you going to do anything with your girlfriend? How is your knee? 
> 
> _K wrote_ :  
>  Maybe you already asked Sass but don’t waste time on Valentines. 

Kadar invited Stephanie out to tacos after school on the ninth because he wasn’t planning on being (in Connecticut) on Valentine’s Day. While his heart belonged to the cheap family-owned place that sold tacos for ten cents a piece on Tuesdays, the atmosphere wasn’t conducive to expressing his romantic affection for Stephanie. She’d been wearing her usual protest-shirt and sweats at school but she met him at the Mexican restaurant wearing a pretty (dark) red dress with charcoal leggings to keep her legs warm. Her hair was pulled away from her face and she was smiling with a confusing mix of pride and nervousness. 

In comparison, Kadar was a mess even if he was wearing his dark slacks and his button down shirt (just like his Mother and brother preferred). His hair (long, curled, messy) was a disaster that hung into his eyes sometimes and yet she held his hand while they were shown their table and kissed him before they sat down. “You’re so beautiful,” he said. Because she _was_. 

Stephanie shrugged off the compliment. “You look really nice too.” Then she looked at the menu and asked him questions about what was good to eat (anything, really, all of it). “How many times have you been here before?”

“Not a lot,” Kadar answered. “I love the place but my family isn’t as keen on Mexican as me. I guess we could have gone somewhere else—was this okay?”

“It’s wonderful. Are you coming over to my house after? My Mom should be home from work before we’re finished here so we won’t be alone.” She turned her cup (just water, thank you) on the table and tucked her hand up under her chin while she asked. 

“Yeah,” Kadar said, “I did my homework in class so I should have time. I told my Mom I would probably be home a little late. She’s angry at my brother because he quit without giving her two weeks, that’s _unprofessional_ so I’m good this week.”

“I don’t believe your Mom gets angry.”

Kadar laughed at that. “It’s not very obvious all the time. She already expressed her opinion about the shortcoming and Malik knew she wouldn’t like it so the two of them are just stewing in their mutual disappointment.” Kadar shrugged. There was no point in arguing with the two of them when they were anxious about their own lives and upset about the same thing for different reasons. Mother wasn’t going to say anything to him about being a few minutes late to dinner because she was working through her feelings about something else. 

“Why did he quit?” Stephanie asked.

Kadar told her the whole story from the moment when Mother had dragged Malik into working there to Monday when Malik had gone to quit and Stephanie had listened with only a few interjections about how upsetting it must be for his brother to be treated that way. And when he was done, the food was on the table. Stephanie said, “I don’t want to sound like that woman but isn’t it forbidden in your religion?”

“People are more than just religion,” Kadar said. “See, my brother spent his whole life thinking that—religion was more important to our Mother than he was. He convinced himself that following these rules we were given by this book that our beliefs are based on was more important than his own life. But my brother has problems remembering humans—that _people_ aren’t that shallow. Even the ones like Donna? It’s not just one thing that made her that person, it’s not just one belief that put those words in her head and gave her the conviction to say them to my brother. We are built by our experiences. So my Mom left the country where she was born, her family, her culture, everything that she knew? She moved here because she thought it would be _safer_ for us here. It would be safer for my brother.” Kadar shrugged. “I can’t imagine leaving the house I’ve lived in all my life, she left _everything_. Isn’t that more significant to who she is than whatever religion she aligns herself with?”

Stephanie nodded. “Are you sure that you’re seventeen?”

Kadar laughed. “Yes, I’m sure. Just ask me about tacos and candy.”

They lapsed into talking about what kind of candy was the best and walked home (even if it was bitterly cold outside). They stopped at a convenience store on the outskirts of Stephanie’s neighborhood to grab a few cups of hot chocolate and made it home to find that her mother wasn’t there.

It was a bad-bad-bad idea to agree to come inside to ‘warm up a minute’. Kadar hung his coat on the hook in the front room of her house. He left his dirty shoes by the door and followed Stephanie through her quiet (silent) house. They were in her room, looking at her elementary school Spelling Bee Champion trophies and her pictures of when she was a cheerleader. There was sun slanting in through her bedroom window and the quiet, distant sound of neighbor kids playing in the backyard. The house smelled like warm vanilla. Stephanie was telling him about the girls that she went to cheerleading with when she looked at him (trying very hard to pay attention to stories about Charity and Cassidy). Her words stuttered to a slow stop and her breath was heavy in her chest as her body shifted so it was facing his more fully. Her breast was all but against his arm and it was _soft_ in touch as she said, “hey,” like her heart was beating straight through her breastbone the way his was.

“Hey,” he said. “I shouldn’t be here.”

“Yeah,” Stephanie agreed. “I thought my Mom would be here.”

“I should go,” he said. The words didn’t translate to his feet. Stephanie’s hands were on his upper arms through the long-thin-sleeves of his shirt. 

“Yeah,” she agreed. “Thank you for the tacos.”

Kadar smiled and tried to figure out where to put his hand but while he was working it out, his left hand found its way to the curve of her waist. His brain couldn’t concentrate on anything except for how warm she was through the dress. It was Stephanie that slid forward, her hands over his shoulders to pull him down but Kadar was the one that kissed her. Her body was pressed against his from top to bottom and there was no way she couldn’t feel exactly how aroused he was. 

There was a lot of things that Kadar knew about sex and a lot more that he thought he knew. He had an in-depth knowledge of what his body liked (or thought he did) and a decent notion of what women must have looked-and-felt like. But reality was Stephanie’s imperfect body, the strange speckle of freckles that covered the top of her bare breasts, the thinness of her upper thighs, the rough spots of eczema on her back and her wide-eyed embarrassment at seeing him naked. Kadar didn’t feel oversized in his own body (most days) but he was a monster when she was laying under him, slim and lost beneath the broad stretch of his body. Nothing more than a feather under his weight. 

He kissed her as she pulled at his shoulders. It was her voice (small and rational) saying _are you sure_ and it was his (not-so-certain but willing-and-ready) saying, _I am if you are_. 

The things that he didn’t know (and couldn’t possibly have known) about sex surprised him, but none of them as much as the _noise_ of it. When it (or he, more accurately) was finished, Stephanie was polite (if not impressed). “Sorry,” he whispered. He took her hand and slid his fingers through hers. “Do you want to try to—” 

Stephanie turned her face to look at him and nodded. She showed him how to use his hand and pressed her mouth against his shoulder. Maybe he didn’t do a great job about the main event (so to speak) but he felt like he made up in the end.

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> Are we meeting for our romantic final dinner as a couple in New York or LA?
> 
> LA
> 
> Will I be dazzled by our love or is the beginning of the end for us?
> 
> How do you want to play it?
> 
> I haven’t decided. Are you bringing the dog?
> 
> Yes. Ezio hasn’t seen her yet. He thinks she’s funny
> 
> I don’t think he’ll stand a chance against her.
> 
> I can’t believe you like this dog.

London did not like going on runs with him. She was too small to keep up and she did not enjoy being jostled in the pocket while he ran. It was easier to leave her at home in her crate (that she loved) than to drag her out in the cold and have to make constant adjustments just for having her there. 

“Why is it that Desmond gets the nice warm gym and I get to freeze my ass off with you outside running through snow?” Lucy tipped her head up to look at the thick, dusky clouds hanging over their heads. 

“Desmond’s a delicate flower and you said that you wouldn’t go to the gym with me because you found out how much a membership costs and would rather save money to pay for college?” Altair had finished stretching while he waited for Lucy to show up and she was stalling on joining him with her hands tucked into her jacket pocket. “You won’t warm up if you don’t start running,” he said.

“Fine,” Lucy said, “do you think Desmond’s going to do something for Valentine’s Day? I only ask because I kind of want him to but then I don’t want to be pushy about it.”

Altair snorted. “Save everyone the frustration and just be pushy about it. If you tell him that you want to do something and it’s important to you, he won’t have to be confused about why you’re angry and you won’t have to think he doesn’t care because he can’t read your mind.” He was all set to start running save for how Lucy was staring at him with open amazement. Altair stuck his tongue out at her (and everyone else that thought his ‘sudden maturity’ was too amazing to be believed. It wasn’t amazing, it was _exhausting_ ). “Are we going to do this?”

“Fine, let’s run. Pissy bitch,” she said. 

“Asshole,” Altair answered. Lucy started running before he managed to say the word so he had to run to catch up to her. They went half the usual distance before Lucy slowed to a walk and looked back along the trail. The snow had gotten thicker than when they started. Altair was wearing his lighter coat (easier for running) but the cold was biting through it. “It’s really cold.” He didn’t have gloves on because he didn’t like the feeling of them on his hands while he ran. Even shoving them in his pockets as they did indecisive circles around one another didn’t warm them enough to ease the bitter chill. “Did you bring your car or Desmond’s?”

“Desmond’s,” Lucy said. “My car is still in the shop. Can we go?”

“Yeah, I think you have one of my coats in your trunk.” Lucy rolled her eyes at that but they jogged back to where they parked the cars. When she popped the trunk open, it was half-full of his clothes (pants, shirts, his second favorite coat that Maria told him to stop wearing while they were dating) and few pairs of shoes he’d forgotten about entirely. 

“Why,” Lucy said. “How does this happen? Do you just walk around naked half the time?”

Altair snorted. “Sometimes, while I’m out I get something on my clothes or I have to change because we’re going somewhere with a dress code or I just left somewhere with a dress code and I go buy a T-shirt because I don’t want to wear a suit while I’m out doing stuff.” It wasn’t unreasonable at all. The fact that Desmond also disapproved of his clothes-buying problem made Lucy’s frown even more humorous. “It’s too cold to deal with now,” Altair said. “You can lecture me at home.” He pulled his gloves out of the pocket of his (second) favorite coat and put them on as he walked toward his own car. “I can feel you glaring at me.”

“I’m going to start donating these clothes to needy strangers,” she said. The sound of the trunk slamming seemed to punctuate her intent. 

“That’s fine!” he shouted back. 

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> YOUR ASSHOLE FRIEND
> 
> MY EX FRIEND
> 
> IS GOING TO LA
> 
> TO FUCK EZIO
> 
> ON THE FIFTEENTH
> 
> BECAUSE HE DIDN’T WANT IT TO BE 
> 
> A
> 
> “VALENTINES THING”
> 
> Good morning Sofia
> 
> DO YOU KNOW HE ASKED ME TO COME ALONG
> 
> HE SAID
> 
> “EZIO WOULD PROBABLY AGREE TO A THREESOME”
> 
> HE SAID
> 
> “I TOLD HIM WONDERFUL THINGS ABOUT YOU.”
> 
> So are you going to go?
> 
> No. I am not as bold with my sexuality.
> 
> I wouldn’t mind meeting him in person but not as the third wheel on a weekend fuck date
> 
> Fair enough
> 
> I’m almost completely sure my baby brother lost his virginity
> 
> Oh. How’s he handling that?
> 
> I think he’s torn between doing it again and self-flagellation
> 
> Steer him in the direction you wouldn’t take.
> 
> I’m waiting until my Mother’s gone on her trip

Mother left on the eleventh. Malik was at home when her ride came to pick her up. Aunt Jeanette waved from the car while Malik stood on the front porch with his toes curled up in his socks and his arm tucked up tight to his body to keep from getting a chill. Mother looked toward the car and then back at him. 

“I expect that our house will still be here when I return. Has your brother planned to invite many people here or run away for a few days?” It wasn’t shocking that Mother had seen through Kadar’s eager glee at this unheard of chance to misbehave. (In fact, she had most likely had this same conversation with Kadar.) 

“I think it’s running away,” Malik said. “I’ll look out for him.”

“Remember your manners even when you are not at home,” Mother said. Then she hugged him. “Stay warm. Don’t be reckless.” She hooked her hands around his neck to pull him down and kissed his forehead before Aunt Jeanette honked the horn impatiently and Mother sighed to herself as she picked up her bag and headed out.

Malik spent the day contemplating what sort of insanity his brother had planned. He watched Altair’s stupid video once (maybe twice) and sat on his bed looking over at his closet where the stupid box with the stupid dildo was (not very well) hidden behind the dictionaries. While he’d decided that he wouldn’t ever use the stupid thing (if only because if he did, it would feed Altair’s eternal arrogance), he was laying on his bed in the empty house, rubbing the inside of his own thigh thinking about it like a low-burning-heat settling all over his body. 

It wasn’t even that Malik was intensely attached to the notion of getting fucked (although, Leonardo was so good at fucking that it was hard to remember there were other things to enjoy). Despite what his brother (and Leonardo, probably his own Mother, most likely Sofia) thought of him, he wasn’t even ‘a bottom’. Out of the seventy four men that he’d had sex with, only three of them had fucked _him_. Everyone else was satisfied with non-penetrative sex or bottoming for him. 

Most of his afternoon was spent thinking intensely about how he didn’t even want to use the stupid dildo and how it was presumptuous of Altair to think that he even wanted to get fucked. (Of course if Altair thought he was a woman, it was logical.) He tried to work out how that conversation would go, if Altair would agree to let Malik fuck him and if he’d like it. The man had made a lifestyle out of being ‘the man in the relationship’ or whatever stupid shit he’d said a few years ago. He was clearly used to being the one that stuck his dick into the other person. 

Malik was three-fourths the way through working out the problem when Kadar came home and found him glaring at his closet. 

“Am I interrupting?” Kadar asked from the doorway.

“No,” Malik said. Then he looked at his brother. There was no obvious indication that Kadar had gone off and had sex with his girlfriend. He didn’t act outwardly very different at all, other than a strangely terse and unfriendly interaction a few days ago. “How was school?”

“Good,” Kadar said. He picked at the doorframe like he was working through a problem. His protest T-shirt was stretched out over his long-sleeve undershirt. There was a strange discomfort caught in his shoulders as his eyebrows creased together. “So,” he said.

As fun as it was to watch Kadar try to work up to spitting out whatever he wanted to say, Malik interrupted the attempts at communication to say, “did you invite your girlfriend over?”

Kadar looked over his shoulder, down the hallway. “Yes.”

Malik groaned and got up to his feet. He shuffled over to push his left shoulder against the wall just inside the door jamb so they were very close together. (The nearer they were, the more obvious Kadar’s height became.) “Do you need me to leave?”

“I need you to leave the upstairs,” Kadar said softly. He stopped picking at the doorframe with his blunt fingernails. “Do you think Mom knows?”

There was no telling. It was likely she did, but she wouldn’t say until the topic was brought to her so there was no harm in shrugging. “Do you need condoms?”

“No I have some,” Kadar said. Like he was defeated by the whole thing. “Sex is really amazing.” The conversation was all in hushed tones, under their breath. Malik wasn’t sure they’d ever managed to talk so quietly for such a length of time before. “I mean, I see why you lost your mind.” 

“What exactly do you have planned for us to do while Mom is gone?” Malik tried to raise his voice back to the normal level and he still ended up murmuring the words at Kadar. He expected something insane (of course) but still not as crazy as:

“I want to find the coffee shop that Lucy works at. She was wearing her apron in that last Friday thing and it’s not stalking. I thought Lucy would be safe because she’s never seen you and I saw some of the cups she did drawings on posted on her twitter and they seemed cool so I want to try to get one.” Then Kadar just stood there waiting for Malik to yell at him about stupid ideas. Setting aside Kadar’s preoccupation with how pretty and attractive he thought Lucy was, the idea of going to New York City _was_ stupid but it wasn’t as insane as Malik was expecting. “I can’t go without you,” Kadar pointed out.

Malik rolled his eyes. “Fine,” he said. He went back to grab a book off the stack of ones he hadn’t read yet and picked up his laptop to carry with him. “I’ll find something loud to watch.”

“Thanks,” Kadar said. “You’re the best. If you ever bring your boyfriend to the house and Mom doesn’t stone him to death and you get over yourself long enough to get naked with him, I’ll return the favor.” But it was obvious from the look on Kadar’s face that he thought that combination of events was simply never going to happen.

“Thanks,” Malik said. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> My girlfriend tells me you told her to tell me she wants Valentine’s day gifts
> 
> One can assume this is because you hate me
> 
> I know that your dog and I have differences but I thought a lifetime of my love for you was important
> 
> You realize the situation I’m in
> 
> She wants gifts but she doesn’t want me to spend a lot of money on them. She wants romance but she’s not a romantic person. This is literally a set-up to torture me. I’m going to fail
> 
> That’s stupid. Buy her diamonds, it’s not that hard. They can be cheap diamonds.
> 
> Romance her with food you made yourself that you can drink beer with. Put a candle on the table.
> 
> Pick out some music that’s good to dance slow to. Dance with the woman while she wears the diamonds. Then fuck her.
> 
> Honestly, Desmond. Watch a damn romance movie
> 
> Meanwhile, I have to find something to give Maria, my fake girlfriend. And then I have to figure out if I’m going to give into Sass’s bullshit about compulsory, empty, heartless holidays or if I’m going to be a shit and send flowers or something.
> 
> When have you ever _not_ been a shit?
> 
> Buy Sass a diamond.
> 
> Ha. Diamonds are for after you’ve had sex.

Desmond hated London. The fact that he was once again puppy-sitting the stupid dog (while Altair went to his monthly meeting) meant he couldn’t sleep. Even if he left the puppy in her crate in the kitchen, he could hear the whining, whimpering, yelping noises all the way in his room. The combination of guilt and burning hatred drove him out of sleep every time he tried.

Rather than even make the attempt, he was laying in his favorite chair with his feet on the coffee table, flipping through pages on the internet (featuring pretty jewelry and other common Valentine’s Day gifts) while the dog lay on his collarbone snoozing loudly enough the snores were echoing in his own skull. 

“You should tell him you need diamonds,” Desmond muttered at the dog.

London’s answer was to kick a paw against his neck and make a snuffling-sneeze-snore noise before lapsing back into complete unconsciousness.

“Well that’s almost as helpful as his advice.” Desmond kept flipping through the pages, trying to work out if Altair’s advice was actually useful this time or if he should try to come up with something better.

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> I wonder how much of my life has been spent in airports?
> 
> You’re a fucking genius you could probably figure it out.
> 
> I didn’t mean for that to sound as mean as it came out
> 
> What’s wrong?
> 
> So I quit the job my Mother gave me. She wants me to go back to school
> 
> That’s fine, I need to go. I should have already gone. I was just busy feeling sorry for myself.
> 
> Except now I’m looking at going back to school at my original college or sticking around here
> 
> And it would be an easy choice if it was just myself I had to worry about. Except I’m sitting here thinking about YOU. Can I go to school here and still have time to see YOU
> 
> I’m sure you’re very pleased with yourself
> 
> I don’t know how to deal with making half-realized plans about things that might not happen.
> 
> I’m dumping Maria after the Oscars
> 
> After that, I am going to figure out how to make you meet me
> 
> I was thinking of appealing to the Saltair fans
> 
> They are an inventive bunch
> 
> They’ll just tell you to start a petition. Get two million signatures! Sass will meet Altair!
> 
> Two million? That’s quite a number Sass. But, go to school where it’s best for you. Regardless of what happens with us, I still want you to go where it’s best for you
> 
> Thanks.

Maria met him at the airport in LA. She threw her arms around him and kissed him on the mouth. The slant of her body just barely avoided squishing London (who had made a nuisance of herself on the second half of the flight). She said, “I missed you so much,” to him like they were the sort of lovers that ever said things like that.

But he didn’t hug her back and somewhere to the side (real or imagined) it seemed like there was a shutter click of some lucky paparazzi catching the exact moment their relationship fell apart. It was February twelfth and Altair was _exhausted_ from the effort of maintaining _maturity_. He was ragged from it so that when he ducked his head and sighed with his forehead pressed against Maria’s (and her hands in his pocket petting London the whimpering-mess-of-a-puppy, he said, “I need a drink.”

“A public drink or a private drink?” Maria asked. She looked up at him without tipping her head. He shrugged. “Private drink,” she said. “Come on, let’s get your luggage and you can sleep in my bed tonight. Is this a pity party that we will be having?”

“I can’t have what I want and this holiday is stupid because I haven’t been able to have it any other day, and it only bothers me that I can’t have on _this_ day.” He straightened up and Maria pulled London out of his pocket to hold the puppy in her hands.

“We will have a pity party together,” she said. She pulled him forward with her free hand in his. “You can tell me about how you will win the man of your dreams.”

“Why do you need a pity party?” Altair asked. 

Maria sighed. “I found a lovely woman I want to take out to dinner and she won’t let me take her if we must pretend we are only friends. Do I want to explore this potential enough to come out or do I stay where I am?” She snorted at the words. “Rhetorical questions, I don’t want answers. The way I expect you don’t want answers about Sass.”

No, Altair didn’t want answers. He just wanted to get drunk and sleep a while and get up in the morning to move on with his life. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Did you get a gift for Valentine’s?
> 
> No I told him I didn’t want anything
> 
> I’m having trouble believing that he listened to your wishes.
> 
> The trouble with having to schedule illicit meetings in other states is that now I know it will happen and I am impatient.
> 
> As I recall it was your decision to change the date
> 
> Details. What are you doing?
> 
> Packing to go to New York. Kadar wants to find Lucy’s coffee shop
> 
> Why?
> 
> I don’t know. But he’s really excited
> 
> Good luck. Try not to run into your boyfriend while you’re there.
> 
> As if he’d recognize me even if I did

“You could have gone to school today,” Malik shouted from his room. “We’re not even leaving until tomorrow. Do we have to stay in the city? Can’t we just go for the day and come back?” His problem wasn’t even that he didn’t want to pack his clothes (or that they didn’t have the money to waste on a nicer hotel room in the city) but some unspecified worried about the whole idea.

“We cannot,” Kadar shouted back. “And I didn’t go to school today because Mom’s not here and I can take the day off. I am also not going on Monday. You’ll just have to deal with it.”

“Delinquent!” Malik shouted at him. He threw his pants into the bag he was taking and gave up on trying to pick out a decent shirt. He would be wearing his coat the whole time anyway. Nobody would see his clothes. There was a scuffle of noise at the doorway and Kadar was standing there wearing a T-shirt and baggy pants motioning at Malik’s similar wardrobe choices. “Ok,” he said, “but wearing a T-shirt isn’t the same as skipping school.”

“Right,” Kadar said.

Malik tugged the zipper halfway shut in aggravation before picking the bag up and dropping it on the floor. “How are we even going to find Lucy’s coffee shop? She can’t work at the only one of its kind in _New York City_. I don’t see how we’re going to have the time to wander around looking for hers in the city.”

“Well, logic is how we are going to do it.” Kadar made that sound so _simple_. “I have an approximate idea of where Altair must live based off his various pictures and tweets since you started this whole stupid thing. Don’t look at me like that, I enjoy solving puzzles and it’s not that hard to figure out where he lives. So, Lucy’s coffee shop is probably closer to him and that gives us only four or five possible options.” 

Malik probably could have just asked Altair where Lucy worked. He, in fact, considered doing that. Casually asking him the exact location of Lucy’s coffee shop. The idea had merit in a taunting sort of way. Yet, he hadn’t managed to bring himself to commit to it. It seemed like the sort of thing that he might do in exasperation when he was wandering around New York (tomorrow) getting sick of looking for the one special coffee shop in a chain of the same stores. 

“All this intelligence and still you can’t get straight A’s,” Malik said.

Kadar rolled his eyes. “Grades are not an accurate representation of intelligence.” Then he moved to walk away again. “Make sure you get sleep tonight. Travelling makes you bitchy. I don’t want to listen to you complaining tomorrow.”

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Why is Altair in LA?
> 
> Why does it matter?
> 
> Because he wants to come see me
> 
> He can’t come see me because Leonardo is coming to see me tomorrow.
> 
> He can’t come to see me today because he’s spending time with Maria!
> 
> They’ll be fine.
> 
> Just don’t leave them alone
> 
> Thank you for that valuable yet completely useless advice.

Desmond woke up to Lucy’s alarm. Usually, he went back to sleep when her alarm went off but now-and-again, she snuggled up close to him in their bed and snuck her hands under his shirt. Her fingertips were always colder than his skin and he couldn’t sleep through them sneaking up and around his back.

“Wake up,” she whispered at him. “Hey,” she said again. “Wake up.” When he didn’t wake up (entirely) at her hands tickling up his spine, she moved her hands down, wriggled them into his pants and he groaned before her cold hands could circle around to grab his testicles. 

“What?” he asked. His two hands were large around her thin wrists but that didn’t seem to be enough of a reason for her to give up. He opened his eyes just in time to save his balls from her cold hands and she stuck her lower lip out as she maneuvered her body over his. He was flat on his back, she was straddling his hips. “If you want this whole romance thing to happen, I’m going to need to sleep.”

Lucy laid against his body and kissed him softly on the lips. Her face was fond of him as she tipped her head and stroked her fingers through his hair. “I want my present.” 

Desmond sighed. “I was _sleeping_.”

“If I don’t get my present before I go to work, then I’ll have to listen to everyone talk about how great their boyfriends are and I’ll have to compete with that by coming up with imaginative romantic things you’ll do.” And, of course, when one considered the situation through that lens, it made the most sense that Desmond would be woke up despite his need for sleep. Lucy rested her hands on his chest and put her pointy chin over top of them. “I’m offering sexual favors at this point.”

Desmond sighed. “I have to get up.”

The utter glee on Lucy’s face was only endearing because she made a squealing noise. Then she roll off him and climbed off the bed as he got up to his feet. He left her gift in the linen closet and she stood behind him with one hand on her hip and the other hanging at her side rolling her eyes. “Is this where you hide everything?” she asked.

He picked up the box from the top shelf (higher than she could reach or see) and handed it to her. There was a small box of candy and then the slim black-velvet case he’d gotten from the jewelry store. She took the candy with a smug-quick-grab. But she stood in the hallway looking at the long-slim-box like she was weighing the pros-and-cons of accepting. Her hand hovered in mid-space as her face flushed out in anger (or anticipation) and then went spotty-white again with exasperated shock. “I love you,” he said. “Please take this.”

Lucy looked up at him and shook her head. “I mean,” she said almost as soon as she realized she’d just shook her head no, “I mean I love you. God, Desmond. This is _real_. You’re—we’re—I’m never getting away from this. I’m that girl that’s going to get,” she took the box from him with sure hands but her voice was trembling as she pushed it open with her thumbs. It was a simple necklace, with a (relatively unimpressive) diamond. It was a good diamond, with a round setting, that hung in the middle of the necklace. There were tears in her eyes as she ran her forefinger over it. “ _Diamonds_ ,” she breathed. “Thank you.”

“It’s just a little one,” Desmond said. He looked down at it with her. “I know you—” _don’t like shows of wealth_ was what he’d intended to say. But Lucy interrupted him by throwing her body at his. Both of her arms were over his shoulders as she hugged him and he curled his arms around her back to hug her. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You’re stupid,” Lucy mumbled at him. “I saw the good beer in the fridge. What’s that for?” Her voice still sounded wet and the way she was hanging onto him was far-too-tight to be reassuring. 

“I was going to make the stuffed burgers and homemade fries,” he said. 

Lucy cupped his face with her full hands and kissed him. “You _are_ perfect, Desmond Miles.” Then she rocked back onto her feet and smiled at her necklace. She smiled at it. “This is beautiful. Thank you.”

Desmond shrugged and she didn’t press him for a better reaction. “The candy is really cheap though. I thought you’d like it.” And she laughed just before she slapped him on the arm. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Are you in New York?
> 
> Not at the moment. Why?
> 
> Where does Lucy work? I wasn’t going to ask but my brother is dragging me around this stupid city Because he wants to see her coffee shop I’m going to kill him
> 
> You’re in New York right now?
> 
> Yes
> 
> I cannot believe you. Why are you in New York? You can’t go see Lucy!
> 
> This was not my idea
> 
> My brother wanted to do it

The stupid day started with a stupid drizzle of rain across slush-snow. Then it escalated with delayed trains and uncomfortable seats. Kadar was vibrating with excitement about how they were going to New York City and Malik ignored him in favor of reading. 

“But,” Malik said when they _finally_ got to the city (on Valentine’s Day, that seemed like a terrible idea), “if we find her today can we just go home instead of finding a place to sleep?” It had been a hopeful notion ( _I’ll think about it_ , Kadar had said) back when it was still fairly early in the day. By mid-afternoon his legs were exhausted from the endless walking, his bank account was getting lighter and Kadar was sinking into a nonsensical euphoria at being in this mystical city.

“New York City,” Kadar said to his right. Always that, like Malik had somehow forgotten where they were. “New York City,” breathed out it in a sigh. He was shaking his head in amazement, narrating a tour and providing an endless litany of fun-facts. 

Malik didn’t care. He’d given up caring. He was staring at his phone, willing Altair to work through his anger (disappointment?) about Malik being in New York so the damn man would answer him and therefore was not looking up to see the building Kadar was telling him to look at. He also didn’t see the man that walked straight into him, he didn’t see the coffee that dumped down the front of his coat as the cup was crushed between his-and-this-stranger’s body. The sound of traffic was a perpetual side note on his left but he didn’t see it either even as he went sideways toward the loud buzz of cars. 

Someone grabbed his right arm (most likely Kadar) and jerked him away from traffic. Malik recovered enough (fist clenched around his phone) to look at the man that almost killed him. His mouth was open to protest (despite the fact that he also hadn’t been looking) but the words died in his throat when he saw the man’s familiar-face. Kadar was grinning like a _lunatic_ at his side. 

“Sorry,” Desmond (Miles, Altair’s cousin who looked a lot like him) said. He had both of his hands out like he could will the coffee off the front of Malik’s coat. “I didn’t even see you. Is this a dry-clean coat? Did you get burned? Are you okay?”

“Yes? No.” Malik couldn’t process thoughts far enough in advance to have any idea what he was saying. Rather than trying to work through it, he closed his mouth and looked at Kadar. His stupid brother was _insane_ with glee as he reached over with his gloved hand to swipe at the front of Malik’s coat like he could just dust off the coffee dripping off the bottom hem. 

“You have to let me pay for the dry cleaning,” Desmond said. He was shoving both his hands into his pockets and fishing around in them for something while he spoke. “I can give you my number and if you call me, I’ll send you the—I might actually just have money on me. Do you know how much it costs to have something dry cleaned? What is that?” he was looking at a business card in his hand. “Huh, I don’t know where I got that from.” Then he tucked it back into his pocket.

“Actually,” Kadar said. “We were just looking for a coffee shop. It’s no big deal about the coat. But can you point us in the direction of the place you got your coffee?” Perhaps just for good measure, Kadar smiled in a way that didn’t seem maniacal. 

Desmond didn’t look convinced that it was a worthy enough substitute for throwing a whole cup of coffee on Malik (it did smell good though). He looked over his shoulder and nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said, “I’ll show you. My girlfriend works there, she makes the best coffee. Do you drink coffee?”

“He does,” Kadar said as he motioned at Malik. 

Desmond nodded his head and then started walking, “it’s this way,” back in the direction he must have come from. Kadar followed after him with no prompting but Malik’s feet seemed to be stuck to the ground (and it wasn’t because the sticky coffee on his shoes that had started freezing in the cold). He just couldn’t prompt himself to take a step forward even before the phone in his hand buzzed to alert him that Altair had sent him a message. Kadar stopped two steps in front of him, made a huffing noise and reached back to grab him by the coat front. 

“This is the dumbest idea you’ve ever had,” Malik hissed at Kadar, “we cannot do this.”

Kadar put an arm over his shoulders as he pulled him steadily forward. His head was tipped down so he could whisper, “this is _perfect_.” And when Desmond looked back to see if they were following him, Kadar was walking peacefully at his side and Malik smiled reflexively. The only thing that saved them all from being possibly too awkward to proceed with the charade was Kadar saying, “so have you lived in New York for very long? We’re visiting for a few days.” 

“Uh, yeah,” Desmond said after a moment. “How are you liking the city?”

Kadar abandoned Malik to talk to Desmond about everything that he’d seen since they got off the train that morning. They were walking close enough together that the added inches Kadar had over Desmond were instantly noticeable. (And if Altair was the same height as Desmond, that meant he was shorter than Kadar.) 

Malik looked down at his phone and saw Altair’s last message, _I don’t think I’ll tell you. You made it this far on your own. You can make it the rest of the way_.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Giving away your coat
> 
> Which one?
> 
> The one in my trunk
> 
> That’s my favorite coat
> 
> Yes, obviously, since its in my trunk
> 
> I spilled coffee on this guy. It’s cold out and his coat is wet.
> 
> What guy?
> 
> The guy I ran into. His name is Malik.
> 
> Fine. Check the pockets.

Desmond stopped outside the door of the coffee shop to motion toward the parking lot in the back. “I’m going to go get you a coat. I think I have two in my trunk so one of them should fit you.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Malik said. It was the most that he’d said the entire time they’d been walking. While he hadn’t admitted that his coffee-soaked coat was cold; the very air around them was frigid enough it made Desmond’s teeth hurt when he breathed. “I’ll be fine.”

“Why do you have coats in your trunk?” Kadar asked. He had both of his hands shoved into his pockets and his shoulders hunched like he was trying to bend himself in half. (It was a wasted effort when he was far too large to condense into a smaller space but he tried nonetheless.) 

“They’re my cousin’s. He leaves his clothes in my trunk,” that whole thing was far too hard to explain to a casual stranger. “He won’t care about the coat. I’m going to go get it, if you go in and ask for Lucy, tell her that I threw you into traffic and I’ll pay for your coffee.” 

“Who’s your cousin that he won’t care about a missing coat?” Kadar asked. His brother smacked him in the chest and Kadar made a light noise of effort at being punched, but otherwise didn’t react. “Sorry,” he said but it didn’t seem believable. He hovered a minute like he wanted to say something else and then let his brother pull him toward the door. 

Desmond went to get Altair’s coat out of the trunk. There were two there, one of them was tailored to fit, and therefore most likely wouldn’t have fit anyone else. It was the coat that Maria liked him to wear because it looked better on him (it really did) than the relatively shapeless one that Altair preferred. He grabbed the shapeless one and checked the pockets (he wasn’t sure what he was looking for) before he threw it over his arm and closed the trunk. By the time he got inside, Lucy was laughing with Kadar while he stood at the counter where she made the coffee. 

“What did I miss?” Desmond asked. The inside was fuzzy-and-hot compared to the lifeless chill of the outdoors. There was an assortment of people sitting at the tables. Each of them were sipping their coffee, glaring at the windows and the cold beyond it. 

“Don’t tell him,” Lucy said to Kadar. “He’ll just roll his eyes. Kind of like your brother.” She slid a paper cup forward and Kadar picked it up to hand it back to his brother. Malik had to tuck his phone away before he could take the drink. Then Lucy handed Desmond his fresh cup over the top of the tall counter. 

“What did you do?” Desmond asked. 

“I may have mentioned that your cousin is Altair,” Lucy said. “And then, we might have started talking about Saltair fiction.” She smiled at him even as she held another paper cup in her hand and scribbled out one of her quick-and-simple designs on the side of it. 

Desmond sighed. Kadar looked up from watching Lucy doodle on the cup to catch him rolling his eyes and he laughed. 

“Anyway,” Lucy said. “Did you read the one where Sass was blind?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. He was leaning casually against the counter. “It was one of those ones that I thought had a great plot but it didn’t really build up a sense of romance in it? I mean, I obviously am no expert on the subject but I feel like there needs to be a more compelling romance between Sass and Altair. Their love defies convention, right?”

Lucy was grinning like an idiot. “Ok, so if you want more romance, did you read that one—damn it what was it? The one where Altair got some film crew to make a romance movie? Do you remember that one? It was kind of insane but I thought it was one of the ones that captured the love between them.”

Desmond didn’t mean to groan. “Altair wouldn’t—”

“Hush,” Lucy said. “You don’t get to talk. Nobody cares what Altair would really do. Do you know what he’d really do? He’d lay around whining to his dog about how he’s never going to convince Sass to meet him while he drinks vodka straight out of the bottle. Nobody cares about that.” Then she turned the cup around and showed Kadar the fat-round puppies she’d drawn on the cup. 

“That’s amazing,” Kadar said. 

“Eh,” Lucy said, “if it’s not on the side of a coffee cup I cannot draw. I’m about to take a break, we can sit down and talk if you have the time.”

“Sure,” Kadar said.

Malik looked as excited about that prospect as Desmond felt. “Here’s the coat,” Desmond said. “Please just take it. It will make me feel better. I can still send you the money to have yours cleaned if you want.” 

“Take the coat,” Kadar said. Then he said something in Arabic that was too fast and low to be understood (not that Desmond could understand it even if it were louder and slower). When he finished Malik was glaring at him with more sincere anger than he had managed before. His response was a monotone hiss. 

“Thank you,” Malik said. He handed his coffee to his brother and held out his hand to accept the coat. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Literal hell is made out of sitting at a table with Desmond Miles
> 
> And his girlfriend Lucy
> 
> While my brother talks about the proper characterization of Sass in Saltair fiction. and Lucy disputes the characterization of Altair.
> 
> I am trying to have sympathy. But I am too amused.
> 
> They gave me one of his coats
> 
> It smells like him. 
> 
> Kadar is having the best day of his life
> 
> Good. The kid deserves it.

Desmond was actually far nicer than Malik expected him to be. After he’d bullied Malik into accepting the coat (which was unnecessary since his was still fine, aside from the coffee soaked into the front of it), he walked to a store a few doors down to get a bag large enough to put the coffee-soaked coat in. Then he sat next to Lucy sighing over the ongoing discussion about Saltair fiction. 

Lucy was arguing with Kadar about whether or not it would be romantic for Altair to make grand gestures, like produce a romantic comedy just to get the chance to meet Sass, or if it were the smaller gestures that mattered. Outside the confines of the fictional universes they were arguing about, in this _real_ one, Kadar was explaining what he thought Malik wanted while Lucy was advocating an utter destruction of Altair’s arrogance. “Just imagine,” Lucy said, “what it would feel like to be Sass at that moment. I can’t.”

Kadar looked over at Malik with a smirk pulling at the edges of his lips. “The guy could cast the entire state of New York in a constant Broadway production of ‘I love you Sass’ and it wouldn’t matter at all. It’s not about the size of the gesture, it’s about the sincerity of it.”

“So your argument is that Altair should send like a card that says ‘hey lets meet at this pizza place, by the way I love you’ with one of his stupid hand drawn badgers and that would be what finally tipped the scale?” Lucy made it sound so incredulous. “Do you realize how disappointing that would be after all this time?”

Desmond sighed again. “How’d your brother get into Saltair fiction anyway?” Desmond asked him. 

“I accidentally got him into it,” Malik said. He shrugged. “I don’t read it but someone recommended it to me and I mentioned it to him. Look at him,” he motioned at Kadar. “He used to have plans for his life. Colleges he wanted to go to. Now he’s just…this.” Malik shrugged. “What does your cousin think about all this?”

“The fanfiction? I think it amuses him that it exists but he doesn’t read it as far as I know.” Desmond shrugged. 

“I have to go back to work, but you’re wrong,” Lucy said. She was clearly amused by Kadar’s insistence that he wasn’t wrong. She had signed his cup for him back at the beginning of the whole ordeal. “You guys are only here today?”

“Yes,” Malik said. 

“If you ever come back into town, you should stop by,” she said. “Desmond can buy you some more coffee.” When Kadar stood up (because Malik kicked him under the table before he could agree to any such thing), Lucy hugged him like they were best friends. She wasn’t a small woman (exactly) but in comparison to his brother, she was. Still her arms went over his shoulders and he hugged her with a surprised but genuine affection. “It was really nice to meet you,” she said. “I’ve never had a fan before. I mean—besides Desmond.”

Malik stood up and held out his hand across the table. Lucy shook his hand. “Thank you for the coffee,” he said.

“No problem. Come see me again,” Lucy said.

Desmond got up and followed them outside to the shocking cold. “Are you sure you don’t want my number? I will pay for the coat. It’s not a problem.”

“I’m sure,” Malik said. “You’ve been far too nice already.” Yet, now that Malik had the coat on (and it was warm, and worn-in and smelled the way the badger had when it was new) he wasn’t going to be giving it up. “Thank you,” Malik added for good measure.

Kadar hugged Desmond too (because he liked hugging people) and slapped him on the back. “Thanks for the coffee,” he said. “Good luck with Valentines.” Desmond thanked him with a laugh and Kadar followed after Malik. Kadar had the bag with his coat in it and the two coffee cups with Lucy’s drawings on them (neatly rinsed and dried). When they were far enough away to get away with it, Kadar said, “our future in-laws are really great people.”

“Fuck you,” Malik said. “I cannot believe you just sat there are _argued_ with _Lucy_ about what _Sass_ would want!” He didn’t mean to raise his voice but it was climbing upward as he spoke. He stopped when a woman walking toward the coffee shop looked appalled and offered her a terse smile. “I cannot believe you.”

Kadar was laughing too hard to be understood but what he might have been trying to say was, “this was the best day of my life.” 

They walked a few blocks in utter silence before Kadar had recovered enough to be like, “but I think he really loves you, Malik. Did you hear Lucy? He’s pining for you. Drinking vodka, telling London his woes.” 

Malik sighed. “So he’s an alcoholic that confides in dogs. Wouldn’t that be a great story?”

Kadar smacked him on the back of the head. “He loves you. Let him prove it, and trust that it’s real.” Then he reached into the bag to pull out the cup with the puppies drawn on the side. “Look at that. I got a cup from Lucy. I don’t need anything else in my life.”

“But can we go home now?” Malik asked. “Please?”

“Sure,” Kadar said. “Did you see her? She was so perfect. She looks exactly like she does in the videos. She was so warm when she hugged me. I got a hug from Lucy!” He slung his arm around Malik’s shoulders and pulled him up against his body. “Cheer up. I know you’re happy about the coat.”

Malik rolled his eyes but he couldn’t stop the smile that crossed his face. “I told him I was in New York,” he said.

“Where is he?”

“I don’t know, not New York. He didn’t seem happy to know I was here and he wasn’t.” Malik smiled at that. Not the aggravation exactly, but the fact that Altair wanted to meet him badly enough this missed chance-meeting was enough to make him angry. “I don’t want him to turn New York into a Broadway production.”

“Well, he would if you asked,” Kadar said. “So be careful with that power. Look at my cup, Malik!” 

“Your cup is wonderful,” Malik said. “Now put it away and walk faster. I want to get home tonight.”

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> What happened with coffee guy?
> 
> His brother spent forty minutes talking to Lucy about Saltair fanfiction.
> 
> I gave him your coat. I didn’t find anything in the pockets.
> 
> What about Saltair fiction can you even talk about for that long?
> 
> They were arguing about grand gestures versus small, sincere ones. The brother argued for sincere gestures, Lucy wants you to rent the state of New York for a Broadway production.
> 
> So, with those standards in mind, I have to go serve Valentine’s dinner.

Altair did not kick the table over but he thought about it very, _very_ strongly. He was wearing the clothes Maria had picked out for him, hovering in the hotel room waiting for her to finish making her face up into a pretty-picture of perfect femininity. They had decided on a lunch date rather than contending with the late crowd of romantic dinners. When she came out, carrying her heels in one hand, she cocked her eyebrow and said, “what?”

“Desmond met Malik today. Apparently he threw coffee on him. Apparently, Malik now has my coat.” The words weren’t mean to sound as furious as they were but each of them were grating out between his teeth. “Apparently, Kadar just spent the whole time arguing about Saltair fiction!”

Maria was trying not to laugh and the effort made her face pink. She sat on the couch while he gestured upward into the air. “Well, at least you know they get along.” Then she slid her feet into her shoes and stood up. “Will you be able to make it through our last happy dinner as a fake couple?”

“I want him right _now_ ,” Altair said. “I don’t want to _do this_ anymore.”

“Well you can’t have him _right now_. The way he can’t have you. If you think that he’s not as miserable as you are, then you are most likely wrong. I’m certain he’s in New York wearing your coat thinking about how nice you smell and how your body must fit inside of the coat he’s wearing. He’s wondering if this stupid thing the two of you are doing is going to work out at all.” She waved her hand in the air. “I told you that you could dump me whenever you wanted. I think I’m ready to stop waiting for the truth to come out.”

Altair snorted. “At this point, it might take a petition of two million signatures to get Malik to meet me.”

Maria smiled. She was beautiful, delicate and pretty in her well-cut clothes. It was everything that she wanted the world to see her as and almost nothing that was real. “I’d sign it,” she said. “That only leaves you to get one million, nine hundred ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine more signatures.”

“I’d do it if I thought he’d meet me,” Altair said. “I’d go out on the street asking people to sign it.” He picked up the box with the bracelet (she had picked out for herself) and opened it so he could put it on her slim wrist. She looked at it and nodded approvingly. Then she took his hand and squeezed it.

“Then do it,” she said. “Tomorrow. Today you’re mine.”

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> Did you survive New York?
> 
> Yes. Then I slept for fourteen hours. What time is it?
> 
> Almost 1 in LA
> 
> So if I get two million signatures, will you meet me?
> 
> Where would I meet you? Would there be cameras? Press?
> 
> Wherever you wanted, somewhere in between where you are and where I am No cameras, no press, nothing but me and you
> 
> Yes, I would meet you.
> 
> Promise?
> 
> I promise.

Altair was supposed to be at Ezio’s at ten but he’d fallen asleep late (very late) and woken up late (very late) and therefore missed that meeting. He invited himself over to Ezio’s in the afternoon because bad manners were forgivable (so he assumed) whenever one had an adorable dog (which he did).

Ezio answered the door looking like he had been half-mauled with a resigned and annoyed expression caught on his face. (Also there was a fresh, damp hickey on his neck that was clearly visible since his shirt was pulled out of shape.) Ezio put one hand on the doorframe and said (in the most civil voice imaginable), “I have company that you are not allowed to hurt. You cannot come in if you do not promise to behave.”

The whole statement might have been more confusing if Leonardo hadn’t chosen that exact moment to wander into view behind Ezio, looking completely put together and angelic. He glanced at the door and saw Altair and his whole expression went from bored-and-denied to cool-and-indifferent. The demeanor of his body changed the way an electric shock went through Altair’s whole body.

“I’ll behave,” Altair promised. He passed London to Ezio. The puppy went with a yip but Ezio nearly dropped her as he said, “what is this?”

“It’s a dog,” Altair said. He stopped a polite distance away from Leonardo and looked at him through the lens of this new information. There was no permanent damage to his face (and Altair thought it was the wrong reaction to be sad about that). There was no outward change to his personality either. He stood there with the same arrogance as before and the only reason it wasn’t just as offensive _now_ as it had been _then_ was the knowledge Altair now had. He didn’t have to wonder who Sass was, he didn’t have wonder if Sass loved him. He didn’t have to spend his time grinding his teeth thinking about the unfairness of what Leonardo knew and he didn’t. “You look good,” Altair said.

Leonardo smiled. “I would look better if you’d waited an hour to show up uninvited.”

Ezio muttered a curse in Italian as he walked up to join. London was trying to get to his face to lick his cheek but Ezio wouldn’t hold her high enough she could manage it. “This is not a dog,” Ezio said. He handed London back to Altair. “It is a squirrel.” Then he stood there as an awkward third, “drinks?”

“Yes,” Leonardo said.

“Sure,” Altair agreed.

Ezio hovered. His kitchen was through a doorway that would remove him from view. So stood a minute, indecisively shifting his weight from one side to the other. “I’ll be back in a minute.” It must have been meant like a threat or a reminder that they should behave themselves. Rather than that, Leonardo smiled at him with open, sunny adoration.

“Take your time,” he said, “we’ll be fine.”

Altair sat in the big arm chair and set London down in his lap. She barked at him and charged up his chest in repeated attempts to get to his shoulder. Leonardo watched from where he was standing before he came around to sit on the couch. “How have you been?” Altair asked. “Since Sass dumped you?”

Leonardo let out a bitter laugh. “Sass did not _dump_ me. We were never seeing one another.” He relaxed back into the plush back of the couch and crossed his legs with the air of absolute ease. It stopped just short of being believable. The discomfort was present in the hard lines of his hands gripping the arm of the couch and the hostile distrust in his eyes. “How do you manage to recover your arrogance so quickly? It baffles me.”

“I have a very large cock,” Altair said. “I find that despite my personality flaws, society has assured me I need nothing else. So when I feel embarrassed about my behavior, I just remember I have a horse dick and everything seems good again.”

There was the smallest quirk of a grin at the edge of Leonardo’s smile that died a swift death. Rather than laugh at the statement, he sighed.

Altair’s heart was beating a thousand-beats-a-minute when he said, “does Kadar look like his brother?”

Leonardo snorted at that notion. “Kadar is curves and Malik is an—what?” The moment the lofty arrogance died on Leonardo’s was nearly an audible snap. His mouth dropped open for a half-second before he closed it again and his whole body shifted forward so he was poised on the edge of the couch. He reached across the distance between them to grab the chair Altair was sitting on by the arm and dragged it close enough their knees were knocking together. “How do you know?” he asked, “Malik would not have told you.”

Altair leaned forward. “You weren’t wrong about me. I was afraid to be gay and it was only that denial that kept me from figuring it out. The first post on the Sett is about a prom that I went to. There’s only one prom I went to, there’s only one person I fucked at that prom. You’re important to him, he’s important to me. So we will need to find a way to play nice.”

“This isn’t nice,” Leonardo sneered at him, “when did you figure it out?” But he was looking at Altair’s face with his head tipped. There wasn’t a long enough span of time for an answer before Leonardo was saying, “you’re an asshole,” like he’d figured it out. “This is why you don’t deserve him.”

“I was lied to for two and a half years, I believe I earned the right to react poorly.”

Leonardo punched him. The move was so swift and so perfectly smooth that it was impossible to see before it landed against his body. They were close enough together that the punch hadn’t had enough space to gather enough momentum but it struck against his side just beneath his ribs with enough force that Altair folded forward and nearly dropped London. Leonardo must have caught her before she got crushed. “I don’t like you,” Leonardo said from above him. “But if we must be nice for his sake, you should know I am not the weakling you think I am.”

The pain was like a blossoming starburst, spreading out from the point of impact and radiating all up and down his chest and hip. Altair was clenching his jaw and his fists to keep from retaliating (but that was a taste in his mouth). When he managed to sit up again, Leonardo was leaning back on the couch, petting London while the puppy laid against his thigh (heedless of her betrayal). Altair sat up (and that hurt) and took in a breath (and that hurt), “we must be nice,” he said. “Don’t tell him I know.”

“You have one month,” Leonardo said. “I don’t appreciate lying.”

Ezio came back into the room with three glasses and a confused but polite smile on his face. “What did I miss?”

Leonardo smiled, “we settled out differences.” 

Ezio didn’t look convinced. 

“He punched me in the kidney,” Altair said.

“No I didn’t,” Leonardo assured him. Then he reached up to take the glass from Ezio and sipped it with dainty lips. “But I could have. Imagine how much more that would have hurt.” He held his glass out to Altair and Altair took a glass from Ezio (who looked exasperated) and touched it to Leonardo’s. 

“To a truce,” Leonardo said.

“For Sass,” Altair said. Then he took a drink as Leonardo did the same. Ezio sat on the table in front of his couch and tipped his own glass up to drink it all in one long gulp. “Well, I’ll see you later Ezio.” Altair handed him his glass and took London from Leonardo when the man held her up for him. He got to his feet (and that hurt) and said, “have fun having sex. Remember the condoms.”

“Always,” Leonardo said agreeably. He was smirking to himself while Altair was concentrating on walking upright despite the pain in his side. The bastard even waved at him when he paused at the door before closing it. “Bye,” Leonardo said.


	59. Chapter 59

Chapter FIFTY-NINE

> [Video starts with Altair and Maria sitting on a white couch. Altair is wearing a pair of jeans and a white undershirt, Maria is wearing a blue button down and a dark skirt. They are holding hands in the wide empty space between them.]
> 
> Altair: So, the time has come to finally address the rumors straight out. If you’re watching this video it’s very likely that you’ve heard of the rumors that I’m in love with Sass.
> 
> Maria: —it’s almost impossible to believe you haven’t heard that rumor—
> 
> Altair: And while we have skirted around addressing his outright by hosting a fanfiction contest and a fanart contest—those entries are looking good, by the way—we have yet to officially confirm or deny the truth of it. There are many people on the internet that have come up with wild theories about Maria and I’s relationship. My favorite being the one where I’m actually an alien shape-shifter and she’s my half-human ally. 
> 
> Maria: That one was fun. The truth, [Maria’s hand tightens around Altair’s noticeably] is that Altair is my beard. I am a lesbian and I always have been. 
> 
> Altair: [looks at Maria and smiles with a reassuring nod] Maria and I are very close friends. Our entire relationship has been a charade to keep the vultures that run popular media from discovering her sexuality. The decision to keep this hidden was her private choice, much like her decision to reveal it is. 
> 
> Maria: To settle the debate once and for all, yes, Altair is in love with Sass. I hear there’s a petition you can sign to convince Sass to meet him in person.
> 
> Altair: If you believe in love, you should sign it. [Altair nods and makes some attempt to look very sincerely convincing.]

“What the hell did I just do?” Maria shouted at him. It wasn’t the first second after they sent the video to Malik (and his brother, since Malik wasn’t answering his texts and that meant he was most likely asleep). In fact, she had been all smiles when the file sent. They had gone out for victory lunch and she had laughed with him about how wrong the fanart portrayals of Sass truly were. (There was a very small fraction of them that features anything but short, white women with short haircuts, really.)

The shouting came later, in the late afternoon when Altair was in between setting London back on the floor and picking his laptop up to see if the video had been posted. The explosion of sound was startling enough he dropped the dog and London landed on her chin on the floor with a disgruntled puppy sound before rolling over and giving him the stink eye. “What?” Altair repeated.

“What?” Maria shouted at him. “ _What_? I just—did you—I just _told everyone_. My own _mother_ still pretend she doesn’t know and there is _no way_ that everyone in the _world_ doesn’t know by now. What did I do?” She crossed the room on her tip-toes (a habit she had when she was very angry, which seemed like an odd choice, really) and motioned at him with her fingers spread wide-open. “You!” she shouted at him. “ _You_ are the worst thing that ever happened to me!”

“Maria,” he said. The world was drown in her sudden scream of frustration.

“Just let me shout,” she yelled at him. Her hands were pressing against her face as her cheeks went all pink and her weight rocked back when her heels hit the ground. There were tears in her eyes tipping over her lashes and a strange half-smile-half-grimace caught around her mouth. “I did it,” she said. “All this time,” her eyebrows furrowed up in pain, “all this worry, all this _denial_ , all the lies I’ve told, all the people I’ve hurt, all the things I’ve given up—chances to be with _amazing people_ , after what I did to you—after everything I’ve done to myself? I’ve really done it. And why? Because you held my hand?”

Altair leaned a little to the side to set the laptop on the chair and reached out to curl his fingers around hers. He pulled her hand away from her face and held it in his own. “Because you don’t want to be afraid anymore,” he said. “I’m here, at your side, for as long as you want me.”

Maria barked a laugh and wiped her face. “You idiot.” But then she squeezed his hand and sighed. Her tongue licked across her hips and she wiped the tears off her face. “There’s not taking it back. So how are we going to get people to sign this petition of yours?”

“Effective marketing?” Altair asked. “Begging? I haven’t figured that out yet.” He waited until Maria regained her composure (somewhat) before he tugged her forward and wrapped both his arms around her. She pinched him on the right side to communicate how she did not reassurance or love but then she relaxed into the hug. “I was thinking of buying one of the Saltair shirts. You should get one too. I could probably talk Lucy into one. Maybe Desmond.”

“You’re stupid,” she said again with her face pressed against his chest. But also, “I would wear it.”

\--

> ### February 16th, 2009: Man Confesses Obvious Secret; Nobody Shocked.
> 
> _Posted by_ : **NotYourBrother**
> 
> Before you click play on the video below please allow me to remind you that our website absolutely does not tolerate hate or hateful comments of any kind. 
> 
> [Video]
> 
> **Tagged** : _F: News or Announcement, I: FINALLY THANK YOU_  
> 

But there was also:

> ### Petition to Meet the Love of my Life
> 
> **Preamble:**  
>  At some point in the past three to five years I had sex with someone and did such a poor job of it that it created an internet monster that affectionately called itself, “Sass Badger”. We did a fairly good job of trading barbs over the internet. I called Sass names, Sass wrote open letters to me regarding my deplorable behavior. At some point we traded e-mails that slowly changed from seething private letters of a generally hateful nature to stilted confessions of a somewhat embarrassing nature to arguments regarding the proper way to care for a small dog. 
> 
> The truth is, Sass has never had a dog and I already discussed the matter with several reputable trainers and veterinarians. If I want to carry my dog in my jacket pocket, I will.
> 
> It has been said that there is a thin line between love and hate and while one could argue the truth of this statement for eternity, it does not apply to the current situation. I hated Sass so completely that there was absolutely no chance that feeling could ever be misconstrued as love. The world did not invert, the sensation of seething abhorrence did not suddenly flip on its head to produce a surge of uncontrollable fire balled up in the center of my chest as love. 
> 
> Rather than a sudden inversion and a nasty bonfire of emotion, falling in love with Sass has been an eternity of small steps and repeated stumbles. There is no one moment that can be named as _the_ moment when I realized that Sass was the one I loved. There was no singular instance when I thought to myself, I cannot live without this person.
> 
> The truth that I have learned from my friendship with Sass is that, we all have to learn to live on our own. We must all face the things that scare us. We must all concentrate our efforts on creating a better world. We must all embrace our passions but be mindful of the feelings and needs of others.
> 
> The thing is, I can live without Sass. I can do that _because_ of Sass. Because a stranger that I had (terrible, one assumes) sex with took enough interest in me to care. I am a better, stronger, happier person today than I have been in years. I could live the whole of my life with nothing but the memories of these times I have shared with Sass.
> 
> I don’t want to. 
> 
> I love Sass. I want to meet Sass. 
> 
> But, as will surprise almost nobody, Sass has yet to be convinced of my sincerity and so I am asking everyone who reads this to sign this petition to prove that love should overcome doubt. To prove that we—Sass and I—deserve this chance. 
> 
> **Purpose**  
>  To meet the single most annoying person on the planet, the one that I have been in love with for God knows how long now, the one that I wake up hoping to hear from and fall asleep still talking to.

Malik woke up from a nap to find that all-hell had broken loose on his website. More precisely, he woke up and found his phone, discovered ten messages from Altair that ended abruptly in ‘ _you must be asleep I sent it to your brother_ ’. He went to his e-mail to see what he’d been sent and then had to reach over and get his computer to watch the video that announced in bold, certain terms that Altair loved him. 

The Sett was overwhelmed with views and comments, his twitter was bombarded with commentary and his (public) e-mail reached a ridiculous three digit number in only a few short hours.

It was surreal in the way that nothing about falling in love with Altair had been up to that moment. The juxtaposition of Altair’s quiet _sincerity_ and the anonymous internet’s feral support of the perception of Sass-and-Altair made his head spin. He sat with his legs crossed (so that Aquila could creep into his lap and lay in a ball of fluff) and stared at his phone while he tried to work out exactly the right answer to this sudden explosion of interest. For one moment, as his thumb hovered over the keys of his phone’s keyboard, he considered that _this_ was the last sane moment he was likely to have until this whole thing played through to the end. 

This moment, this one on his bed absent all the outside forces of the world, was the last moment he’d ever have to think it through. As soon as he responded on his twitter, as soon as he opened his door, as soon as he got of his bed—the whole world would know that he’d seen the video and he’d agreed (or something very like it) to Altair’s terms.

He spent the moment appreciating the notion of Altair on the opposite coast, biting his fingernails, wondering what he was going to say. Malik leaned back against the headboard and worked through the zealous feeling of _triumph_ and the nervous twitch of _dread_ that was fast-dying with the increasing certainty that Altair might just mean what he said. 

When he was finished relishing in it, he lifted his phone up again.

\--

Sass-Badger: let me say this before anything else is addressed. @MariaThrope is a PERSON, she is not a villain, she is not a character, she is a PERSON. (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: please to not claim to support Saltair while showing such a depth of disrespect to a person who has done nothing. @MariaThorpe is my friend and @Son-of-no-one’s friend (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: we simply cannot accept the support of anyone who does not also support her. (9m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I told you @Sass-Badger had your back, @MariaThorpe (8m ago)

MariaThorpe: @Sass-Badger, thank you my friend. (6m ago)

MariaThorpe: @sass-badger, please put him out of his misery. (4m ago)

Sass-Badger: Your fame alone could secure you half the votes required for your petition to pass, @Son-of-no-one, I need to see a bit more commitment. (2m ago)

Son-of-no-one: for you @sass-badger, anything. (1m ago)  


Kadar was reading the petition (again) on the couch in the living room when Mother came home. She set her bags on the floor by the door and took her shoes and coat off. Kadar looked up at her with a smile, “did you have a nice time?” he asked.

Mother used her hands to dust the snow out of her hair. Then she came over and sat next to him. Her smile seemed so sincere and so heavenly that there was mistaking it for anything but happiness. “I had a lovely time,” she assured him. Then she put her cool hand on his arm. “And what misbehavior did you goad your brother into while I was gone?”

“We went to New York for a day,” Kadar said. He didn’t turn the screen so she couldn’t see it but cleared his throat like dislodging the last vague leanings toward guilt. “It was supposed to be for a couple of days but then we accidentally met Desmond and Lucy.”

“Who are Desmond and Lucy?” Mother reached up to absently fluff the lazy curls of Kadar’s hair and made that expression that had haunted his childhood just before he was hauled to the nearest hairdresser to have his hair cut into something more appropriate. Then she rested her hand in her lap again. 

“Desmond is Altair’s cousin. The one that he’s really protective about and Lucy is Desmond’s girlfriend. I convinced Malik to go because I wanted to see Lucy.”

“Why?” Mother asked. 

Kadar shrugged. “She’s really pretty and really strong and I just—like her? I mean not the way I like my girlfriend but I think she’s amazing and I wanted to see her. I have a coffee cup that she drew on for me and she signed it. It’s on my shelf upstairs.”

The idea of looking up to celebrities (or whatever one might call a person like Lucy who wasn’t particularly famous) was not a thought that his Mother understood. Rather than comment on his misplaced admiration, she said, “how is your brother?”

“Good. Altair dumped his girlfriend and started a petition to convince Malik to meet him in person.” Kadar turned the computer so she could see it. “He has to get two million signatures.”

Mother tipped the screen a bit so she could read it. When she was finished she only sighed. “I imagine you signed this?” The space she put between them was polite but not disapproving. She was looking at Kadar and not the way his hands rested against the keyboard with indecisive acknowledgement. “Why do you support him?”

Kadar shrugged. “I don’t,” he said. “I support Malik. This is what he wants. I mean—you can’t deny that this is what Malik wants.” 

Then Mother sighed and motioned at the computer. Kadar handed it to her and she rested it in her lap as she scrolled down to the section that allowed you to offer your electric signature to the growing list. “Your Grandmother very much disapproved of your father’s decision to marry me. I was not the person that she wanted marrying her son. My Mother was not keen on Faheem either. I did not have doubt. I knew that he was the one that I would be happy with. They could only see the worst of me and of him because it was all they looked for. But I saw him,” she said as she typed her name into the box. “I saw him before I married him and I knew I had not made a mistake when I saw him holding our sons.”

“Was it the same for Dad?” Kadar asked. While they had never shied away from talking about his Father, it was not a common topic in the household. By the time he was old enough to remember anything, the pain of his Father’s death was an old bruise for Malik and his Mother. They carried it around with them while Kadar lingered in half-realized loss. “Did he see you?”

The smile that crossed her face was so very sly it seemed like it was better suited for Malik’s face than her own. She said, “he might have, but I imagine he was blinded by the simple physical pleasure I offered him.” And when Kadar’s mouth dropped open, she laughed (simple and merry), “I seduced your father into marrying me. He says that he loved me but I imagine our stolen moments were instrumental in convincing him to defy his Mother.”

Kadar made an embarrassing noise. “Mom!” he shouted. “You?”

Mother shrugged. “I was very young, Kadar. There were many people that said I could not have what I wanted. Do not look so shocked. I was older than you are, older than your brother was.”

Red flush covered Kadar’s cheeks and he picked at the sides of the computer resting in his lap again. He looked anywhere but at his Mother and still could feel the way she was looking at him. “I didn’t do it on purpose though,” Kadar said.

“Oh I imagine the sex was entirely accidental. It is very easy to remove all of your clothing without being aware of it.” Then Mother sighed. “Do not make the mistake that your brother has made. Do not use sex to forget life. I seduced your Father because I intended to make him my husband. I do not know if your intentions toward your girlfriend are so serious. Do not lose track of your brain and your soul while you satisfy the lusts of your body.” 

Kadar did look at her then and nod. Then, since the topic had been brought up, he said, “what do you think Dad would think about all this?” 

Mother smile was fond-and-sad, “I like to think, that if your Father had been alive, I would not have failed Malik as deeply as I did. I think Faheem would have seen his son struggling under the immense weight and reassured him when he needed it the most. He was like that, like _you_ , he could not bear to watch somebody suffer without cause. Maybe this would not have happened if your Father had been alive to spare your brother that pain. But if this still happened, I think he would not side with Altair. He would say, _he is not good enough for our son. What is wealth? What is fame? Show me his worth in his deeds._ ” 

Malik came downstairs while she was talking and walked around to stand in front of them. He looked unimpressed with their Mother’s impression of their father but it was apparently accurate enough (or often repeated) because he raised an eyebrow, “talking about Dad?”

“Mom seduced our Father out of wedlock,” Kadar said. 

“What?” Malik demanded. The shock was _sudden_ and _real_ that there was no way he had known it before. “You did what? You?”

Mother shrugged. But the smile on her face was almost exactly-the-same as the one that crossed Malik’s. 

\--

> [Video starts with indistinct street noise, comes into shaky focus on Altair who is wearing a white shirt with black letters reading: ‘I ship Saltair’.]
> 
> Altair: So I’m out here, on the street, pleading my case to everyone walking past. Like this—excuse me miss. Ma’am?
> 
> Woman: [Stops but eyes camera suspiciously.] What?
> 
> Altair: I’m sorry to stop you, it’s just that I’m trying to get signatures for my petition. You see I’m in love with this person but I’m trying to convince them to meet me in person.
> 
> Woman: Aren’t you that guy from the jeans ads?
> 
> Altair: Yes I am. For a few years now I’ve had an ongoing relationship with someone on the internet but they are convinced that you cannot fall in love with someone if you don’t see them first. I’m trying to prove that I can love Sass even if I haven’t seen them. I just need a minute of your time to sign my petition, please?
> 
> Woman: Why not.
> 
> [Camera cuts to a group of young women who clearly recognize Altair.]
> 
> Woman 2: But how do you know that you’re going to love Sass? What if the person turns out to—be an old guy or be blind or disfigured or—there has to be a circumstance when you wouldn’t be able to be with them.
> 
> Altair: Unless I have been lied to consistently for the past three years, I have already had sex with Sass. I just don’t which person it is that I’ve already had sex with. I don’t remember having sex with any old men. The rest of it isn’t as important to me as the personality.
> 
> Woman 3: But you’re so hot. [Another woman slaps Woman 3 on the arm for the statement and they have a quiet, indistinct conversation.] No, I mean it. Let’s be honest. You’re a _model_ and you’re telling me you could love this person even if they look like an elephant’s—vagina?
> 
> Altair: [Stares at the woman for a few seconds while the others seem embarrassed and then finally nods his head.] I’m reasonably sure that my own looks don’t keep me from loving someone else. [He looks at the woman with some concern another moment before continuing.] Signing the petition only takes a minute, if you could just help me out. For love.

On the one hand, Desmond was proud that Altair had finally decided to pursue Sass. Three years of foreplay was more than enough for anyone. On the other hand, Lucy came to a dead stop while she was riding his dick, swept her sex-sweaty hair away from her face and said, “we need to get Saltair shirts.” 

“What?” Desmond asked. He was having trouble connecting the dots between the sex that was just brought a rude, sudden halt, and the way Lucy was nodding her head. She was gloriously naked, with her skin pinked from exertion and her mouth a worried-red. “Right now?”

She tipped her head to the side and fake pouted at him. Her hips rocked back and then forward as she leaned down to kiss him. “Don’t look so offended. Sometimes I think about groceries. That doesn’t mean I don’t love your dick.” As if to prove the point she clenched down on him and then smiled at the breathless noise he made. “Sometimes, it just takes me a while to get into it.”

“I don’t know how you think that wouldn’t be offensive.” He grabbed her by the ass and pulled her forward, she made a protesting noise until his hands tightened to lift her up and drop her on the bed. He rolled with her, she landed with her shoulders against the pillows and a half-objecting laugh tumbling out of her mouth. “I want you to think about me.” 

“I will,” she promised. Her hands were in his hair pulling him forward to kiss her but he didn’t follow the motion. “Very soon. I’ll only be thinking about—what are you? Oh?” She shimmied down against the pillows when he put one of her legs over his shoulder and settled on his belly between her spread legs. “I should offend you more often,” she whispered into the air above him. Her fingers were petting this hair in soft-encouragement even before he put his mouth on her. 

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> Saw your video. Not sure what an elephant’s vagina looks like.
> 
> Please don’t look it up. I don’t know either but even so don’t look it up
> 
> What are you doing?
> 
> Walking home. I went for a run but then it started snowing so I have to go home.
> 
> Sidewalks are getting slushy so no running.
> 
> How’s the new coat?
> 
> Very warm. 
> 
> What are you doing?
> 
> Claudia is teaching me to fold paper flowers
> 
> She thinks it’s romantic. There’s poems on the paper or something
> 
> What are you doing with the flowers?
> 
> Her and Ezio are helping me pass them out tomorrow to get people to sign the petition. Ezio’s show is filming it
> 
> Of course it is.
> 
> I’ll send you a picture. They won’t let me film it
> 
> Good luck
> 
> papercuts are the worst
> 
> I’ll send you a picture of my hands too

Ezio had helped fold the flowers for a while, if only because Claudia had bullied him into it. After the first ten minutes, he had made a grand show of going for a drink and still hadn’t returned an hour and a half later. Altair had managed to master the sequence of the folds necessary to make a nice flower and had fallen into the mindless monotony of it. Aside from the texts from Sass, there had a pleasant, numb quiet while he worked.

Claudia’s interruption was very loud, and very sudden when she said, “do you know who Sass is?” She set her phone down on the table top and picked up another sheet of paper. While her brothers were both intolerable with the presumption of knowledge, Claudia was much more like a sneaking-snake, creeping through the grass to gather new tidbits of things to know. 

“Why would I?” Altair asked.

His answer was a tilt of Claudia’s raised eyebrows and the disbelief etched into every part of her face. When her point was fully made (or else she assumed), she said, “my brother thinks that your internet lover is a boy. I said that statistically that was almost impossible. I said that it didn’t make sense and Federico told me it made more sense than anything else. I think he was just saying it because he thought it would annoy you to hear it. But now you are on the street asking for people to sign your petition. I wonder if he was more right than I thought then.”

Altair finished the flower he was working on and laid it into the big bin with the others. Then he reached forward to grab another sheet of paper. “If I knew who Sass was, I wouldn’t tell you. Your family cannot keep a secret.”

Claudia smiled, “so you do know.”

Altair only shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter if I know or don’t. All that matters is that I get a chance to meet Sass.” He was halfway through folding the flower before Claudia stopped smiling at him like an overly indulgent mother doting on her child. 

\--

MariaThorpe: just got my new favorite shirt in the mail. #ishipsaltair (13m ago)

NotYourBrother: @mariathrope, where do I get one? (3m ago)

The agreement was that Malik stayed downstairs while Stephanie was visiting. It only applied during the hours before Mother got home. If Mother was in the house, Kadar and Stephanie behaved like moral little children, sitting on the couch holding hands and having very private illicit thoughts about one another’s naked bodies.

They were in the living room now, tipped into one another while Kadar tried to explain about the petition to Stephanie. And while the girl was amused by the devotion of semi-celebrities (and she’d laughed at the video of Altair asking for signatures and arguing about love with strangers), she said, “ok I get all that but how did you get involved? I barely even know this man and you’ve gotten him to give you photos and now you’re signing his petition. Why?”

“Well,” Kadar said. “I—started following his youtube because he did a lot of free running and parkour and it just…”

Malik sighed from where he was sitting at the dining room table (watching Altair’s video about how to properly fold a paper flower even while London jumped at his legs and tried to get on the table to push the paper around with her nose). “He cares because I’m Sass,” Malik said. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Stephanie looked confused by the information for a minute, looked at Kadar for some confirmation and Kadar just nodded. “They met at Malik’s prom.” He shrugged. “It’s been a weird few years. Please don’t tell anyone?”

“He’s in love with you?” Stephanie repeated. She leaned forward around Kadar to look at him. “And you’re making him get two million signatures in order to meet you? Does he know you’re a man?”

“Probably not,” Kadar said quietly.

“The petition and the signatures was mostly his idea,” Malik said.

“Are you going to marry him?” Stephanie asked with a blunt laugh. She seemed embarrassed a second later. “I mean, if you could? If he gets two million signatures, I’d marry him.” She leaned back again and started whispering to Kadar about petitions and signatures.

Malik considered arguing about the difference between the pressure of faceless people on the internet pushing him to do something and the actual level of attachment and compatibility that was necessary to make a marriage work. It seemed as if it would ultimately be a waste of his time so rather than bothering with it, he returned to watching the video. 

\--

coffee4college: got my shirt! #ishipsaltair (25m ago)

Shirley-templar: I don’t have the shirt but #ishipsaltair (20m ago)

BestofThree: I got my shirt signed by @son-of-no-one, hoping to get a matching signature from @sass-badger one day. (18m ago)

Im-not-drunk: the whole family has a shirt. We made them ourselves. #ishipsaltair (3m ago)

Desmond worked at a bar. He met hundreds of people at the bar, some of them turned into regulars and some were seldom seen. His family (Ezio and Altair primarily) had come and gone from the bar time and time again without incident. Once in a while, they hung around to watch him work but they were usually far too interested in enticing young women into adoring them to care much about Desmond’s skills at flinging around alcohol bottles. 

Then there was Federico, sitting at the bar, watching him pour drinks and show off with a quiet look of approval nestled on his almost perpetually unlikable face. He had shown up nearly an hour again, ordered a few drinks and steadily worked his way through them. The glasses were sitting in front of him, empty and slick with drying condensation. When Desmond had a spare minute, he went to the end of the bar to pick up the glasses. 

“Did you need me?” he asked. The sound of the bar was a dull roar that left his ears feeling numb. Despite the noise of it, he had managed to develop a very specific hearing that allowed him to make out any drink order in any level of noise. 

Federico shook his head, “I’m in town with Mother. I thought I’d stop by and watch you. You are a very good bartender, talented but not arrogant.”

It was a strange compliment from Federico. Desmond shrugged. “Do you need another drink?”

“No thank you,” Federico said. Then he stood up and slid a tip toward Desmond from where it had been resting under his hand. There was probably a rule against taking money from your family. (If not at the bar then definitely in the Auditore family.) Federico smiled in a way that wasn’t at all reassuring. “Call me tomorrow. We’ll have lunch, somewhere your girlfriend can wear whatever she wants.”

“Sure,” Desmond agreed. He watched Federico go with a lingering sense of fear but it was gone-again in the next minute because someone was calling for a drink.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> You have been suspiciously quiet about all this
> 
> Would you like me to have protested or encouraged?
> 
> Just offered a general running commentary?
> 
> I just thought you’d have an opinion
> 
> If your boyfriend took his shirt off, he’d get more signatures.
> 
> But their value would be reduced
> 
> I thought it was nice of him to hand out flowers to people for signing his petition.
> 
> He makes a compelling argument for love.
> 
> I still do not like him.
> 
> Well, some things cannot be changed.

Malik couldn’t sleep.

He’d gone to bed two and a half hours ago with the intent of curling up and going straight to sleep. But the dark around him had been immense with half-thought things. The long-realized worry that Altair’s promise was only as good as his eyes. (And what, really, was Malik compared to the many wonderful beauties of the world?) He dashed the worry against the certainty that even if he wasn’t as physically attractive as the faceless hundreds that Altair had already had the pleasure of meeting that he most definitely had Altiar’s heart. He reminded himself (endlessly) that there were countless stories in his Sexy Saturday inbox explaining how Altair had turned down a more attractive person (by their own account of course) for someone more plain. Even by his own admission (which was worth only as much as any other sincerely believed confession) he was not as caught up on physical beauty as he was on genuine feelings.

It had gone on for hours, turning over in his head and gut as he twisted around on his bed looking for a comfortable way to lay and get rid of the insidious thoughts. 

He battled the notion that he owed it to Altair to tell him the truth. And he dissected each of the man’s actions, picking it apart, looking for some relief from the guilt. Altair could love him, and would forgive him if Malik explained the reason he’d kept the secret. (Most likely.)

When that failed to soothe him, he rolled onto his belly and picked his computer up off the floor under the bed (where he’d taken to stashing it now that it had illicit videos on it) and even convinced himself he wasn’t going to watch Altair masturbating (again) but went to his youtube page to watch the old videos of him. 

If he circled around to the video buried on the depths of his hard drive it was only because his head was full of cotton of sleeplessness and orgasms were generally conducive to sleep. He dragged it out, watching the video and imagining what it would feel like to have Altair’s stupid, magnificent body pressed all against his. He fell into the daydream of what he’d like to do to him—how he’d like to touch him, how he’d feel (hard and firm) under Malik’s hand, the sort of sounds he might make and—

But that was forty-five minutes ago and Malik still couldn’t sleep. He was laying on his bed staring at the ceiling in the dark. His phone was gripped in his right hand as he waited for exhaustion to defeat anxiety.

Leonardo was a brief, unhappy interlude in the quiet. Malik thought about sending Altair a text, thought that if he started a conversation (and the man was awake to answer it) that he could fall asleep waiting for the next message. He could wake up to find something new from the man and that thought was usually calming enough. 

Still, doubt-and-worry stalled him. Malik held his phone over his face in the dark, thumbing through the conversation. He went back past the talk about how to introduce a cat to a dog (and wondered, at this point really, why he still hadn’t told Altair he had two cats) and past Altair’s talking about the older woman that smelled like overwhelming perfume that asked him a thousand questions about Sass and wouldn’t be satisfied to sign the petition until she knew all of them. 

He was smiling over the stupidity of Altair whining about paper cuts straight to the moment he read:

 _How’s the new coat_?

The question had been so entirely natural when Malik had answered it. He wore Altair’s coat almost exclusively since he’d gotten it (and if Mother was curious about his new coat she had yet to ask) and so it had become a part of his everyday life. Answering a question about it was hardly worthy of note until after-one-am in the dark when he couldn’t sleep. 

Altair shouldn’t have known about his coat. (But maybe Malik _had_ mentioned a new one.) 

He sat up on the bed with his legs crossed in front of him and scrolled through the conversations up-and-up looking for any mention of the stupid coat. He made it all the way back to New York in the conversation and he hadn’t once even mentioned that his first coat was ruined with coffee.

There was no thought that led him to climbing off his bed, no thought that followed him to the door or down the hall. He wasn’t thinking (about much, but about this _coat_ Altair should not have known about) when he opened Kadar’s door or closed it again. He crossed the room and grabbed Kadar by the shoulder to shake him awake.

“What?” was his brother’s cranky response as he flailed an arm out in the direction of the annoyance. He was squinting at the dim light of Malik’s phone and following it up to look at his face. “What happened now?” Kadar asked.

“He knows about the coat,” Malik said. That was an inspiring bit of information to Kadar. Malik handed him the phone and pointed at the screen. “He knows about my _new coat_. Did you tell him?”

Kadar pushed himself up to sitting and stared at the phone. The bewildered look on his face faded out into a numb kind of shock. “No,” he said (oh so softly), “why would I tell him about the coat? How does he know about the coat? Do you think they knew who you were?”

No, no Malik didn’t think Desmond and Lucy knew who he was. “He didn’t use pronouns,” Malik said. “This whole time, in all the videos and the stupid petition, he hasn’t used pronouns has he?” But he didn’t have to look again because he’d just read it and he’d just listened to it. Altair said _them_ and he said _Sass_ but he didn’t say _her_. “He knows,” Malik said. 

“There is no way he figured it out and didn’t say anything,” Kadar said. “I mean I like the guy but he’s as mature as a moldy doughn—what? Why are you making that face?”

“That _son of a bitch_!” Malik shouted. “He attacked me! He—he—that _son-of-a-bitch!_ ” He was aware that he was shouting (after dark, while everyone was sleeping) but the whole grand disaster of last fall explained so swiftly and so completely that there was no doubt at all. “That fucking _bastard_ ate pizza in front of me and asked me how I liked blowjobs and _that asshole!_ ” 

Kadar looked concerned (as concerned as possible when he was still half-asleep), “wait so what? When?”

“Last fall,” Malik shouted. “October. Remember? He was eating the pizza and he asked how many people I’ve had sex with?”

“Oh.” Kadar set the phone down and yawned. “Well, he got over it.” Clearly he was waiting for Malik to agree with him. The whole mess was neatly wrapped up in the bow of ‘in the past’ and they could all move forward with their lives. The exact moment Kadar figured out that Malik’s anger was more pressing than the exhausting reassurance that Altair _knew_ and _still loved him_ was visible in the way his expression crumbled into resigned sadness. “You’re still going to make him do this aren’t you?” Kadar handed him his phone. “Yup,” he said like answering himself. Malik was already walking toward the door when Kadar said, “but remember that you do love him and he does love you. Ok? Remember that.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> I just got back from lunch with Federico
> 
> Why?
> 
> Apparently Mrs. Finch is inviting my father for tea
> 
> I knew that she was thinking about it.
> 
> I didn’t know that she had decided to do it.
> 
> Federico said he thought it was fair that I knew. Since my father would be around the city
> 
> I don’t know how to feel about this sudden maturity.

Lunch was a burger place because Lucy had taken advantage of Federico’s promise to go somewhere she would be comfortable. They sat on tall chairs at a square table listening to whatever sort of sports coverage took up the midsection of the day. 

“I heard the two of you were getting married?” Federico said. He was dragging a fry through ketchup when he said it. It was easy enough to assume that the weight of the words was the reason he’d invited himself into Desmond’s bar and initiated this (somewhat more comfortable) second attempt at familial interaction. 

“Well we’re having a ceremony,” Lucy said. “We haven’t made a choice about the actual certificate portion.” She wiped her face with her napkin. “I was told that your family would swoop in and take over preparations so we haven’t really done anything yet.”

Federico laughed at that. He made a wry noise and nodded his head. “They are distracted, Claudia is swooning with Altair’s declarations of love, Ezio is preoccupied with his new homosexual adventures, Mother is worried about an impending death and Father—” Federico shrugged. “Father does not like to impose. I could lend you Cristina if you wanted an experienced opinion. She is familiar with the rapid planning of a wedding.”

Desmond tried very hard not to make any expression at those words. 

“Sure,” Lucy said. “I know I need a dress but that’s the only thing I know. I thought I’d invite my Mom up too.” She licked the ketchup off her thumb in between words. “So you’re saying that your Mother isn’t going to make a huge deal out of this?”

“My Mother will concentrate her efforts on this as soon as the matter of Mrs. Finch has been resolved. I give you a month to have some solid idea of your own plans before she will come and try to take over. There aren’t many women I think could stand their ground against her but you may be one.” Federico smiled at Lucy in a way that was _honest_ with admiration. And Lucy didn’t smile back but nod in agreement. The moment was over almost instant (but still significant) before Federico turned to look at Desmond. ‘William is coming to the Old House to see Mrs. Finch next week.”

“He can’t, Altair said he couldn’t,” Desmond said. The denial was so automatic it was childish. The surge of anger (and fear) that jumped in his chest was likewise _childish_ , reminiscent of the scared and powerless child he’d been once. He might have gone on with a thousand denials save for the grimness of Federico’s expression. “Oh.”

“Mrs. Finch asked that he be allowed to see her. The agreement that I heard was that William is only allowed to see her and he cannot be in the house unless I am. I’m not sure what that says about what the baby thinks of me.”

Desmond snorted. “He thinks you know how to bury a body if it’s necessary.”

Lucy added, “but also he trusts you not to have to if it’s not necessary. If he just wanted the guy dead, he would have shown up himself.” It shouldn’t have been so easy to agree to those words. It should have been such a light feeling of victory either. There was no source of pride in knowing what violence Altair was capable of and _yet_ the knowledge that he could (and _would_ ) fight William was a comfort.

Federico shrugged. “Either way. I thought you should know.”

“Thanks,” Desmond said. “Do you think I would qualify as a major family member in your Mother’s view? I just need to know how large and overwhelming this wedding will be.”

Then Federico laughed. He let Desmond change the subject but it was obvious from the side-glance he shared with Lucy they both knew that he’d only asked to avoid thinking about his father. “You are not her child, you are not Catholic. Your wedding will be impressive but I do not think it will be the sort of affair you should be frightened of.” 

They talked about, the kind of weddings that Mama Maria would organize until they were laughing about elephants and acrobatic trumpeter players. Federico hugged him when they parted ways and Lucy held his hand with cautious fingers.

“Do you want to talk?” she asked. It had long-ago replaced _are you okay_ when she’d figured out that Desmond had no response to but _I’m fine_. 

“Not right now,” Desmond said. “I’ll find you if I change my mind. Weren’t we supposed to go shopping for something?”

“Yes, furniture for the guest room,” Lucy said. “We agreed that I got hamburgers with the rich cousin and you would be allowed to purchase all the furnishing and decorations in a single day regardless of the cost without comment from me.” That seemed like an impossible bargain. Lucy squeezed his hand again and Desmond squeezed hers back. It wasn’t much in the way of reassurance but it always seemed to be approximately enough to calm her (outward) anxiety.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Why does Altair know who I am?
> 
> Ah. I had hoped your usual observance would be enough to uncover the truth.
> 
> Apparently, his reading comprehension improved. He told me the first post on the Sett was about your prom.
> 
> You knew that he knew and you didn’t tell me?
> 
> Altair loves you. His only concern is convincing you of this.
> 
> It seemed safe enough to let him have his secret for a month.
> 
> When did you talk to him?
> 
> On the fifteenth. I also punched him. 

Malik went for a run and didn’t come home for two hours. He left his phone on the table when he left (intending to be gone only fifteen minutes or so) and therefore walked back into the house to his Mother’s intensely unhappy face. Her hands on her hips was nothing compared the cold-dead silence of the house (absent Kadar’s usual noise which meant he had sought silent refuge in his room). 

“I’m sorry,” Malik said. His face was chapped with cold but the rest of his body was still warm with exertion. “I didn’t mean to go so far.” 

Mother was white-with-anger, pale all under the warmth of her usual skin tone. Her jaw cracked with an almost audible noise only far enough for her to say, “ _I was worried_.” She did not move while he pulled off his coat and glove and scarf but wait until he was stripped down to his regular clothes to touch his face and press a palm to his forehead. “I’ll make you tea, come to the kitchen.”

Denying his Mother her worry would only end unhappily so he went with her to the kitchen. He sat while she slapped the pot into the sink and filled it with water. When it was done she dropped it on the stove and turned the burner on. Then she pulled out the chair opposite him and sat in it. He was expecting her to explain to him the nature of his mistake but instead of that, she said, “I am in love with a man. I met him at work some years ago and we have carried on a quiet, platonic affair for almost half your life.”

It was not at all what Malik was prepared to see. “Uh.”

“I promised myself that I would raise my sons before I indulged in any selfish desires. I have held true to my promise all these years. I do not regret my choices. However, this past weekend my friends tricked me into meeting him. I spent several days enjoying his company. I understand how much you want this man. Do not doubt that I do.”

That was not at all where Malik thought the conversation was going. “Are you going to let us meet him?”

Mother’s smile was so sweet and sad. “You have met him. You have known him for some years. I meant to say, I spent the weekend with him. I saw what our life could be if I allowed him to love me as he wants to. I have been thinking since that moment, how different our lives might have been if I had only allowed myself the chance to trust him before. What could have been different for me? For you? For all of us? It’s a pointless exercise when there is no way to know what could have been.” Mother sighed and got up to pick up the boiling kettle. She brought him a cup and a tea bag. The water steamed as she poured it and then set the kettle back on the stove. When she came back again, she said, “your brother told me that Altair knows who you are.”

“He does,” Malik said. “I—I’m angry and I don’t know why. He did the right thing? He was angry about what he found out and he took the time to figure it out. When he came back, he knew and he still wanted me. He didn’t want to meet me before? He didn’t do any of this before he knew. So why am I so mad?” 

“Why am I?” Mother asked. She sighed. “I had such a lovely time. I am angry because I did not allow myself to have this man. I am angry because I could be happy but even now, I can convince myself that I do not need or want him as much as I thought I did when I was with him.”

Malik stared at the seeping color of the tea spreading out away from the bag nestled in the steaming water. He wrapped his hand around it and let the words settle in his gut. “So what should I do?”

Mother smiled. “I don’t know. Do not do what I have done. If you believe you have a real chance to be happy with this man, if you believe he loves you as he says he does, you should not let allow yourself to talk your way out of it.” Then she sighed (again), “what should I do?”

“Invite the man over for dinner?” Malik asked. “Who is it?”

There was a pink embarrassment on Mother’s face when she used her hand to push her hair back across her shoulders. Her head was held high (not ashamed) and she said, “Mr. Jacobs.” And when Malik just stared at her (and thought of how long she had worked with him, and how many times he had greeted Malik and Kadar with genuine affection over the years and how he had always looked at Mother with a peculiar kind of look was struck) speechless. “I know,” Mother said.

“Is that why he agreed to fire Donna?” Malik asked.

“Not officially,” Mother said. “Even if he has had no direct hand in raising you, I feel that he cares about your well-being. He was not aware you were gay until I brought matter of Donna to him but I assure you that she stood no chance of being allowed to remain in her position once he knew. I think you would like him. He would not be a father but I think you could get along with him.”

“I can’t believe you’ve been dating your boss,” Malik said. “Does Kadar know? I can’t believe you’re dating your boss.” Because he _couldn’t_ believe it. “And you seduced Dad before you were married? What else is there that I don’t know?”

“I imagine as you become an adult, you will find there are many things about me you never knew. That happens as we age. We understand our parents in a different light.” Then she pushed the honey toward him so he could sweeten his tea. “It happens the same, I have found, with our children. You’re a man now. You are solely responsible for your choices and so you must make them regardless of any other opinion. What do you want to do about Altair?”

“I want to walk up to him and ask him why he thinks I’m too stupid to figure out he knows,” Malik said. It wasn’t such an outrageous idea because he _could_ do it. He could ask Desmond where Altair lived, he could tell Desmond who he was and that Altair _knew_. At very (very) least, he could get Desmond to put Altair someone Malik could find him. 

The idea nagged him, in and out of anger, since he found out the truth.

“Then do it,” Mother said. “Your brother would not mind another trip into the city.”

Malik laughed at the idea. “He’s not there right now.”

Mother’s raised eyebrow was speculative at best. “Is that an obstacle greater than two million signatures?” She narrowed her eyes, “it does not sound like it would be.”

\--

> FROM: S. Badger [Sass_Badger@gmail.com]  
>  TO: Maria Thorpe [MarEaTea@gmail.com]
> 
> I apologize for using this e-mail for more than our agreed-upon communication regarding the fanfiction and fanart contests. I feel reasonably sure that you still have friendly or ambivalent feelings toward me. As such, I hope you will hear out my request. 
> 
> I’m betting that since Altair was with you last October, you are aware of who I am. 
> 
> I know that he knows.
> 
> Can you bring him back to New York? And if you can, can you tell me where he lives? I considered convincing Desmond but since he is not (as far as I can tell) aware of who I am, I felt it would be easiest to contact you first.

Maria invited herself over to Ezio’s to help make gnocchi and drink wine. She was wearing a T-shirt with her hair in a ponytail telling stories like, “and then she told me that I was an unsophisticated cunt.” While Ezio was caught between laughing at the extremity of breaking up with a woman who had only ever been a sex partner and being horrified that the affair had ended so tragically. Maria shrugged it off as she took a drink of wine. “She wasn’t even that good at sex, but she was so very pretty.”

Altair was sitting at the end of the kitchen island, one elbow on the countertop and his chin in his hand. He was rolling the stupid gnocchi because the other two had dissolved into trying to one-up one another with terrible breakups. Ezio had a woman try to gouge his eyes out with a soup spoon once but otherwise most of his affairs ended amicably. 

Altair’s phone was sitting silent on the island; Malik had stopped replying to him a few hours ago after saying that he was going for a run and would return soon. Soon was apparently a relative term. (A very relative term.)

“Why are you pouting?” Ezio asked. “You should be happy! You have thirty? Thousand signatures on your petition! You will achieve your goal in no time if you continue to gain approval this quickly.” 

“Two million signatures are pretty useless when the person I’m gathering them for has stopped talking to me. I’ve gotten like six texts in three days.” Altair picked up one of the doughy balls and dropped it on the floor for London who jumped out from under the legs of the barstool to grab it with a vicious growl of satisfaction. 

“I am sure Sass is only busy,” Maria said.

“Or embarrassed,” Ezio added. “You are very embarrassing. Sometimes the things we think we want are not the things that we want. Maybe Sass did not expect you would agree to such an insane idea.”

That was stupid.

Maria glared at Ezio. Then she licked her lips. “Sass is only busy.”

“It’s still disheartening,” Altair said. Both of his hands were covered in paper cuts from those stupid paper flowers and he had spent days begging for signatures and being harassed by strangers that thought they knew something better than him. It was _infuriating_ to know (with one hundred percent certainty) that he was right about something only to have his certainty questioned by countless strangers. “Also, thirty thousand is nothing to be proud of. That’s a small number in comparison to two million.”

“Come to New York with me,” Maria said. “I have agreed to speak to one of the morning shows. You can come along and tell them about your petition to meet the love of your life. That is the sort of thing that they love.” 

Ezio leaned across the island to take the gnocchi away from Altair before he could drop anymore to the dog. (Or just squish them into streaks of dough across the counter top.) “Maria’s right. It is the perfect chance to plead your case to everyone.”

Yes, the perfect chance to have to answer more questions and have people mock him for falling in love with his internet stalker. Altair sighed and shrugged. “Fine. When are you going back?”

“Sunday,” Maria said. “It will be good. And do not worry about Sass.”

“And stop feeding the dog scraps,” Ezio said. He was _offended_ on a level far too high that his food (his homemade food) was being dropped to a dog. Altair almost picked up another to give to London just to see if he could make Ezio shriek in outrage over it.

\--

horse: I made my own shirt. #ishipsaltair

Leonardo’s shirt did not look hand-made. The letters stretched across the front of the shirt like salt spilt out of the overturned shaker on the side. There was no doubt that he’d done it with fabric pens or a Sharpie but Malik could still have convinced himself that it was a professional product.

“So Maria is bringing him back Sunday?” Kadar said. “And you’re just going to _go see him_? Don’t bring that shirt. I don’t know why you’re bringing shirts at all? Like that giant bottle of lube, that seems reasonable, but clothes? That doesn’t.” 

Malik put the shirt that Kadar objected to back into the closet and pulled out the one that was hanging next to it. He dropped it on the bed so he could pull the hanger out of the collar but Kadar picked it up before he could do it himself. “I don’t know why you assume that I’m just going there to have sex. There are a lot of things that we have to talk about—there’s so many things we haven’t even started figuring out. Also I thought I might see other people at some point.”

“Right, after three years of long e-mails and eternal angst, you’re just going to go there and talk about your plans for the future.” Kadar managed to make the idea seems as ridiculous as it truly was. “I already packed for this trip and I’m pretty sure I brought less clothes than you. So did Maria give you his address?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “She also gave me everyone’s phone numbers as apparently you can’t just go past the front desk without being invited. Which make sense but we have to make sure she’s there so she can meet us in the lobby before we go. I have no idea,” Malik said as he stopped pulling clothes out of the closet. “Why I’m bringing this many clothes. This is a stupid idea. I shouldn’t do this. I don’t need to do this.”

Kadar stood up and slung his arm around Malik’s shoulders. “You absolutely don’t need to do this. You can just wait until he gets two million signatures. What’s a couple more weeks of longing and desperation? I mean you still have that video of him jerking off right? That will see you through. And you can enjoy him groveling for signatures because you know that he loves you.”

Malik elbowed Kadar in the chest. “You only want to go so you can get back to New York. You don’t care about me.” Then he looked at the piles of his shirts folded on the bed and rubbed his forehead. “Can you help me put some of these back?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “It’ll be great, Malik. You worry too much.” Then he picked up one of the hangers and the first shirt off the pile. “But you know, I’m serious about the lube.” And he was giggling when Malik hit him in the arm with a plastic hanger. 

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> When is my father going to be at the house?
> 
> Thursday.
> 
> I’ll be there.
> 
> Will you be bringing anyone with you?
> 
> Lucy.

Desmond made the choice in between getting off work and walking into his still-dark bedroom and finding Lucy sleeping next to an open wedding magazine. She was sleeping on top of the covers, sprawled over most of the bed, and all at once the entirety of his future seemed so immense there was no denying the imminent start of it.

A few months ago, the possibility of becoming a father had terrified him. It had been liquid shame-and-guilt floating through his body until it filled him up to his eyeballs. But standing in the doorway of his bedroom, the idea of children—of a home, of a _life_ —with this woman was so _possible_ that the black shadow that hung across his back seemed too significant to ignore.

The truth was that Desmond had avoided his father every day of his life since he ran away. The events of Grandmother’s death had thrown them into close quarters and William had not shied away from screaming at him about how Desmond had betrayed him, how he was a worthless son and liar. The things William had said to him in that final meeting had been stuck in his ears for _years_. The sound had faded but the words remained. 

“Hey,” Lucy said when she woke up with a sleepy-half-smile. “What’s wrong?” She moved the magazine and lifted her hand up toward him to beckon him into bed. He went to her, stopping only long enough to take off his jeans and shirt. She slid her arms and legs across his body and rested her head on his shoulder. “You always get really hot when you’re upset.”

“I want to go see my father,” Desmond said. 

The catch of breath was the sound of Lucy waking up. She ran her fingers in a lazy circle around his nipple before she lifted up enough to look at his face. “Ok. What do you want to do when you see him?”

“I want to tell him he was wrong about me,” Desmond said. “I want to tell him that he didn’t win, I’m still here and I’m not what he said I’d be.” Then he swept his fingers through her hair. “Would you go with me?”

Lucy nodded. “Yes,” she said, “you know I will.” Then she kissed him. When she laid back against his chest, her hand was pressed over his heart. “I love you,” she whispered. 

“I love you too.” He thought he might say more. He thought about asking her about her wedding magazines or wiggling down to kiss her. She was warm and sparingly dressed. He thought about letting his fingers invade the open spaces in her clothes but he closed his eyes instead. He put his hand on hers over his heart and just enjoyed the _warmth_ of it.

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> good morning
> 
> Good morning.
> 
> What are you doing up so early?
> 
> I’ve got a flight. Any chance you’re going to be wandering around New York?
> 
> Sorry. That was a spur of the moment thing. My brother’s idea.
> 
> Well one can hope
> 
> Have a safe flight. Text me when you land.

Maria followed him home (because he was pouting). She sat in his kitchen eating the cookies that were in his pantry (he wasn’t even sure when the lady who did his shopping had added cookies to the list but they were useful to have in moments like this). She had a glass of milk and the peeled-open container at her side. “So, have you guys figured out where you’re going to meet?”

Altair shrugged. “No. I mean, between here and there? I think probably a hotel somewhere.” Then he grimaced at that. “Why not a hotel right? I can just show up with a pizza? It can be like the first time.”

“Well, if you’re being kind you could get him drunk before you stick the baseball bat between your legs up his butt,” Maria said. Altair glared at her but she had already struck on another idea, “oh but you were saving yourself for him. I’ve never done anal but I still advise a little bit of alcohol.” She was licking crumbs off her fingers while she mused over the fate of his ass. Her phone went off and she picked it up and rolled her eyes at the message she got.

“What?” Altair asked. 

Maria growled. “I cannot even spend an afternoon free! My publicist has sent papers for me, they are downstairs.” Her aggravation was so bright and so grating that Altair laughed at her. “I will be back.” She took her phone with her when she got up. “Don’t eat my cookies.” And she walked away but came back with quick steps to smack his arm when he tried to take one. “I said do not eat my cookies.”

“Fine,” he said. He followed her out to the living room and laid on the couch. London barked to be allowed up onto his chest and he indulged her while he stared at his silent phone. The message he’d sent to Sass ( _landed safely_ ) had gone unanswered for over an hour and a half. It was the middle of the day, opportune time for a nap or an activity so it was conceivable that Malik was just out doing something that required his full attention. Altair set the phone on his chest next to the dog and closed his eyes again. 

The door opening behind him made London jump up with tail-wagging enthusiasm. “Did you get your papers?” Altair called. 

His answer was the sound of something being set down and the door closing. There was a soft pad of footsteps that sounded very different from the shushed sounds of Maria’s dainty walk. The oddity of the sound made him half roll on the couch, so he was on his side with his head tipped back. London slid to the side and landed against his arm and then rolled completely off the couch. Altair would have grabbed her (should have grabbed her, meant to grab her) except that standing not even four feet away from him in full-living-color wearing his-fucking-coat was none other than Malik Al-Sayf looking pink with something that might have been excitement or embarrassment.

“You obviously do not know me very well,” Malik said (what a greeting), “if you thought I wouldn’t figure out you knew.”

Altair was _numb_ with shock, rolling off the couch to land on his knees and then scrambling back up to his feet. His hands were hanging out to the sides, halfway between grabbing Malik and not touching. “What?” he said. “How? What—you’re _here_.”

Malik smiled (oh-so-perfectly) with his tongue across his lips and his arm lifting up in a whole body shrug. “I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Altair's Petition](http://bewareofchris.tumblr.com/post/126924661654/petition-to-meet-the-love-of-my-life-by-altair) is on Tumblr if you'd like to like/reply/reblog it to add your "signature"


	60. Chapter 60

Chapter SIXTY

> **Maria**
> 
> I’m here
> 
> Good. I was on the verge of breaking your boyfriends face
> 
> I cannot stand pouting.

Malik’s entire chest was vibrating with the effort of his racing heart. It felt as if his heart was knocking against the inside of his breastbone, echoing in pulses against his ribs. His stomach was tight and empty while he tried to figure out what exact pose and position looked the least inconspicuous waiting in the massive lobby of this building. It was exactly the sort of place that he thought Altair would live. The man that was standing behind the desk was eying them with a precise kind of distrust that made Malik want to shrink backward into the wall. 

“Hey, it’ll be fine,” Kadar said. “So, what is the plan? What am I doing?”

“I don’t know,” Malik said.

“How long does it take to have gay sex? Maria would probably know, right? There’s probably something we can do in this building while we wait for you two to finish.” Kadar was _serious_ and the problem wasn’t that his take on the situation wasn’t realistic. There was enough proof in his history to think that his sole intention of coming here was to go up the stairs (or the elevator) just to get a chance to rip Altair’s clothes off. The idea was a streak of heat through the intense dread and nauseating excitement that was coiling his internal organs up into knots. The immense reality of even the _opportunity_ to consummate this bizarre, elongated internet affair (soberly, at least) was more than Malik could even wrap his head around. 

“Do you think I should though?” Malik asked.

“What?” Kadar sounded like he’d been interrupted in the middle of a thought (and for all Malik was capable of understanding, he could have been talking right up to the moment Malik said that). The look of amused confusion made Kadar’s face impossibly young even with the shadow of hair on his cheeks and jaw. “Why wouldn’t you? I mean, isn’t this what you’ve been thinking about for—”

Malik glared at his brother. The thing was that Malik _knew_ how to have sex with someone and he knew that he could (here, now, as soon as Maria got them up to the top level). There was more _to it_ than that, more to this meeting, more that he wanted from Altair. “I mean, yeah—just, give me like ten minutes and then come back.”

Kadar looked completely unimpressed. “Dude, I’m pretty new to this but ten minutes is embarrassing.”

The elevator chimed at the end of the lobby and the doors opened. Maria Thorpe stepped out looking every bit like a dressed-down movie star. Simultaneously, she managed to look glamorous and entirely human in a way that was breathtaking. Her smile was sharp on the edges, the quick snap of her heels across the floor was daunting but the way she paused in front of them (with a nervous twitch of her fingers clasped together) was entirely endearing. “So which one is it?”

“Him,” Kadar said.

Maria turned to look at him fully. “I suppose the arm should have given it away.” Then she narrowed her eyes at him and took in all of his appearance. From Altair’s coat (that he’d chosen to wear because it was comforting) to his scruffy hair (he never seemed to be able to tame anymore) and then reached up with one hand to run her thumb across the goatee on his chin. “You’re very handsome. Come on.” Then she motioned them after her toward the elevator with a quick wave at the man behind the desk. 

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Maria just sent me a text telling me to bring Lucy to your place as soon as she got off work
> 
> Why?
> 
> What’s happening?
> 
> Altair.

“You obviously do not know me very well,” Malik said (what a greeting), “if you thought I wouldn’t figure out you knew.”

Altair was _numb_ with shock, rolling off the couch to land on his knees and then scrambling back up to his feet. His hands were hanging out to the sides, halfway between grabbing Malik and not touching. “What?” he said. “How? What—you’re _here_.”

Malik smiled (oh-so-perfectly) with his tongue across his lips and his arm lifting up in a whole body shrug. “I am.” London was attacking his socks, nibbling and pawing at his feet as she yipped harder about the obstruction keeping her from his toes. “This doesn’t get you out of getting those signa—”

Altair stepped forward, both hands reaching out to touch Malik’s face and pulled him forward to kiss him. It was far-far-from perfect with Malik in the middle of talking, the dog yelping about having been stepped on and Altair’s terrible milk-and-cookie breath. Malik’s body was indistinct beneath the bulk of the coat but his arm circled around Altair’s as he tilted his head to adjust the angle of the kiss. He wasn't shy and he wasn’t afraid. There was nothing (nothing, nothing) at all like hesitation in the way Malik’s fist pressed against Altair’s back and his tongue slid into Altair’s mouth.

There were important questions to ask. How and why, at least, seemed relevant. There were things to say and things to think. There were things that Altair had been thinking about in the in-between moments waiting for planes and cars and lunch to arrive. 

But there was nothing in his head except the sensation of Malik’s hand spreading out across his back and the radiating chill from the coat he was wearing pressed all against Altair’s front. There was no telling what his body was like beneath the stupid thing. But he knew how tall Malik was (almost as tall as him) and what his face looked like, and how his tongue felt and that he drank coffee (a regrettable habit, really) because the taste of it was stuck in his mouth. Altair knew the sound Malik made when he was running short on breath and the lean of his body that tipped his head and shoulders away from Altair. His face slid out from between Altair’s cupped hands as he smiled breathless and _beautiful_. 

Malik’s hand was lingering on Altair’s arm, his fingers and thumb were pushing at the muscle there as his smile turned into a soft-focus kind of stare that dropped from his face to his arm and then trailed up with his fingers to push at Altair’s chest. “Damn,” he whispered (half to himself). 

“What?” Altair asked. “Did you think I photoshopped the muscles in?” The silence stretched between them, the way it did when Malik was on the other end of the phone, maybe making that same face with one eyebrow lifted up and a flat expression to convey how amused he wasn’t about something he’d just heard (or read). His fingertips pulled away from Altair’s body and it was amazing how quickly he was lonely to have them back. “I love that coat,” Altair said.

“It’s mine,” Malik said. The smile crept back across his face thought, he cocked his head to one side and looked Altair over in a way that was blatantly, _purposefully_ , tauntingly sexual before he reached up to tug at the zipper of the coat. It slid down easily. Underneath, Malik was wearing a black button-down shirt tucked neatly into his pants with a belt. It seemed like far too many fasteners, far too many steps to getting naked. He shrugged the coat off and turned sideways to find somewhere to throw it, settled on the chair and dropped it there before standing in front of him (one presumes, to be inspected). While his face was a mask of cocky confidence, there was the slightest twinge of worry caught in his body. 

“Can I touch you?” Altair asked. He meant it to sound like real words but they were whispers.

“Up here,” Malik said. He motioned at everywhere above his waistline and Altair nodded before he pressed both of his hands against Malik’s chest. His shoulders were broad, well-shaped by virtue of not being overly bony or overly thick with muscle. His chest was firm. The cotton of his shirt felt super-heated, worn-in-soft and it moved against his skin when Altair dragged his hands down his body and up around to press at his back. Malik made a noise like he’d been punched. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Then he took a step forward and Altair took a step back (aware distantly that London was somewhere) and then another until his calves were against the couch. 

“What?” Altair whispered. He curled his hands around Malik’s back and pulled him up so he was on his toes. He expected to be told to set him back on the ground and was therefore surprised (but not unpleasantly so) when Malik pulled his legs up to press his knees against Altair’s side and wrapped his arm around his neck. He expected venom and sass and not to be kissed. Not for it to be so easy. If he had any sense of shame left (which he should really try to muster) he might have been embarrassed at how easily and how wholly he was aroused by the tight cinch of Malik’s legs around him. 

“Sit down,” Malik bit into his mouth. “We only have like four minutes.”

“What?” Altair sat and the couch objected to the sudden drop of weight. There were intelligent questions that needed to be asked but Malik was pressed against him in wonderful-wonderful ways. Altair’s hands were tugging his shirt up out of his pants, wiggling his hands up under to the smooth skin of his back.

Malik’s tongue was in his mouth again, his hand was pressing against Altair’s chest as he shifted his weight around until he was satisfied. His hips rocked with the press of his nails through Altair’s shirt. “I wasn’t going to do this,” Malik told him between this kiss and the next.

There was probably an important question as to why in there somewhere, but more importantly there was Malik’s body against his. Altair’s hands side around to his sides, his thumbs ran across the bumps of his ribs. His skin was perfectly smooth on the right but there was a dip and a ridge on the left that made Malik flinch. It was so automatic when Malik reached across his body to drag Altair’s hand down off his ribs that he might not even known he did it. 

“Not there,” was the only instruction he was given. Then Malik was kissing him again.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I’m hungry so you only get like 8 minutes

“So you actually met and talked to Lucy and Desmond?” Maria asked. They were standing in the hallway outside of Altair’s apartment (condo? Kadar wasn’t sure what the correct terminology would be). “I cannot imagine that she’ll be pleased to know that. She might hit you.”

Kadar shrugged. “We can go in now.”

“You said ten minutes.” Maria looked at her phone. “It’s been seven.”

“Oh well,” Kadar said. “You said you have cookies and he wouldn’t let me buy anything at the coffee place we stopped at in the train station. If he’d fed me, he could have had his ten minutes.” Kadar did take the precaution of sending a text but it most likely had fallen on deaf ears (or blind eyes). Maria opened the door anyway, with a wry roll of her eyes, and she motioned him in after her. 

She stopped long enough to take her coat off and hung it on a hook by the door and then stepped out of her shoes. “Well now, you are far more dressed than I expected.” There was amusement in her voice the precious seconds before London, the cream-colored fluff ball, came running out from under the chair squealing abuse and neglect. The dog ran for Maria like its life depended on it and yapped and jumped and barked and yelped until it was picked up. “Sorry, sweets, Daddy has a new friend to play with.”

Kadar wandered just far enough into the living space to see Malik glaring at him from where he was sitting in Altair’s lap. Over the years, Kadar had seen Malik in all levels of annoyed and angry but he hadn’t ever seen him be so _unhappily cockblocked_. The amount of venom and frustration was almost hysterical. “I told you I needed that scone to survive.”

“That _scone_ looked like it was made of granite,” Malik said back. His voice was surprisingly even, all things considered. His shirt was untucked and his face was spotted pink but otherwise he seemed as pristinely collected as usual. 

Altair though, he looked like he’d just been punched in the kidney, all limp and defeated while he tried very hard to muster up some kind of smile to offer Kadar. “Hello,” he said as if he didn’t have one of his hands on Malik’s thigh and the other one slowly pulling free of his shirt. 

“Hey,” Kadar said. “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Come on,” Maria said. She pulled at his sleeve. “I’ll show you where the food is. It’ll give them a minute to compose themselves.” 

Kadar followed her into the kitchen expecting to be amazed by it. Whatever he thought he’d feel standing in the pantry that was nearly the size of the bathroom of his house, didn’t compare to standing in a room that was stocked full of every kind of food that he was suddenly hungry for. It was like a small grocery store (except it was free) and Kadar stood there with his mouth hanging open and his hands at his sides. 

“Alright?” Maria asked.

“I’m just so happy,” Kadar whispered. But then, also, “how do you ever decide what to eat?” He wavered back and forth between real food and an assortment of junk that was incredibly unfair to find in the pantry of a guy who looked like Altair did. 

“I invited Desmond and Lucy so one of them will insist that food be cooked. I would choose something simple until then.” Maria set London down and the puppy immediately jumped at her leg. “Go find him,” she said, “tell him to hurry up.”

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> I just need to know if I have to fight someone.
> 
> What?
> 
> Why do I have to show up at your place asap?
> 
> just show up. I promise you want to

Once Kadar disappeared around the corner into the kitchen, Malik heaved a sigh and shifted his weight so he was sitting back on Altair’s thighs and dropped his hand down to rest against his own leg. The flush of arousal that was making his skin so very warm was draining away now. “I don’t think that was ten minutes.”

“You only gave us ten minutes?” Altair asked. He gave up modesty and reached down to tug at his pants. Other than moving the discomfort of having his dick trapped in his jeans, it did very little. The action seemed to intrigue Malik, however, because he looked down between them and then up at Altair with a very-purposeful, very-concentrated look of consideration. After a pause he thumbed open Altair’s pants. “They are right there,” Altair said (like a whisper). 

“Is there food in your kitchen?” Malik asked. He worked the zipper down and Altair lifted his hips to inch his pants down just enough so when Malik reached into his pants he had the room to close his hand around Altair’s dick. “Are you fucking serious?” he asked when he pulled Altair’s dick free from his pants and boxer-briefs. For a minute he just held it in his hand, dragged his thumb up the underside of it and then he looked at Altair’s face. “Is there any blood left in your brain?”

“Not a lot,” Altair said. There was a lot of thought happening that wasn’t happening in needy pulses spreading out from his dick. He was trying to figure out something intelligent to say but Malik was sitting on his thighs, curiously moved his loose-fist up-and-down Altair’s dick while he assessed it for potential. “It doesn’t bother you that your brother could walk in?”

Malik looked over his shoulder and then back at Altair. His hand tightened but the slid was perfectly dry and rough as he stroked him in a lazy-lazy rhythm. “If there’s food in your kitchen, he won’t come out until he’s eaten as much of it as he can fit in his mouth. You know I watched your video,” he said. “I’ve watched it a lot.”

Well that was the intended purpose. “Yeah?” Altair whispered.

“I have to wait until everyone’s asleep and then I lay on my bed and I watch it, and I think about the things that I want to do you, I think about how your body would feel against mine and how much I want you. I jerk off in time to your hands and sometimes I think about if I could even get all of this,” his hand tightened briefly and then loosened again, “inside of me.”

“Fuck,” Altair whispered. He pulled Malik down to kiss him again, felt the loose ends of his shirt brushing against his bare skin between where his pants were pushed down and his shirt was pulled up. His dick was throbbing, his whole body was lifting up into the gruff touch of Malik’s dry-dry hand. It was far from inspiring (as far as hand jobs went) the technical merits of it were lost in the storm of filthy imagery of Malik masturbating to his video. “Malik,” he said like a _warning_ or a _prayer_. But it was far too late because he was coming all over Malik’s hand and on his shirt and he wasn’t even sorry about it as he sagged into the couch.

\--

> **Mother**
> 
> we arrived safely
> 
> Behave yourselves.

Malik was almost entirely sure that his Mother’s version of behaving oneself did not include jerking off in the guest bathroom without his shirt on. He had grabbed his bag between the couch and the bathroom. Altair had made some attempt to offer to return the favor (which was kind but Malik had said:

 _”My brother is in the kitchen,”_ like a whispered confidence in the last bare space between his mouth and Altair’s. The cooling stripes of his come across the back of Malik’s hand were smeared into his own shirt (much like the rest). He kissed Altair because he wanted to know what his mouth tasted-like-felt-like in those first soupy moments after orgasm. And then he pulled back, “ _where’s a bathroom? I need to change my shirt._ ”)

Then again, his Mother had seduced his father before marriage so there was no telling what her version of ‘behaving’ in this situation would be. Malik bit his lip when he came and rinsed his hand in the warm water from the tap as he sagged forward to press his forehead against the cool sink. His body was overheated but he couldn’t sort out what part of his feelings were the most sincere and pressing. 

When he stood up, he had no better idea what the hell he was going to do next but at least his hand was rinsed off as well as possible. He set to work unbuttoning his shirt and rinsed it out too before rolling it up and dropping to the side. 

By the time he came out of the bathroom, Altair had changed his clothes (all of them) and was fixing the cushions of his couch. He had his phone in one hand and was frowning down at it before the sound of Malik’s footsteps made him look up. The most genuine smile crossed his face before he made an embarrassed grimace. “I was just thinking, you still haven’t answered my text.”

Malik shrugged. “I couldn’t think of anything to say.”

“I can’t believe you’re here.”

Well that was an understatement as far as Malik was concerned. There were many things he couldn’t believe and it started back at the train station in his home town and it kept right on going up to the moment Altair gasped his name in the last second before he orgasmed. There was a lot of disbelief swimming in his head and only the steady thumping of his nervous heart grounding him to reality. “Please don’t let me stay if you can’t—if—” But the trouble was that Altair hadn’t seen the disaster of scars that covered his side. 

Either it was obvious from how Malik had not buttoned his shirt (and he’d taken off his undershirt as well) or Altair was more perceptive in person than he seemed to be at a distance. Either way he came around the couch as he said, “I told you, I don’t care what you look like. And I don’t. I want _you_ , the whole of you. What can I do to prove it to you?”

Malik said, “you are not singular. Neither of us can pretend that you are. You are the sum of your family, the dense weight of the media, and an entire faceless anonymity of the internet beyond them. I can tolerate any stare, pity, curiosity, or disgust, as long as I know that yours is fixed on me. You haven’t seen what you’re so eager to saddle yourself with and I cannot allow myself to be dragged down if I don’t know you’ll be there to fight with me.”

Altair sighed. “Can I see? Will that help?” It wouldn’t help at all but Malik was nodding anyway as Altair’s fingers plucked at the open sides of the shirt. He spread them open and looked down at Malik’s asymmetrical chest. The damage was limited to his left side but the various scars were a variety of smooth lines, dips and bumps. Malik shrugged his shoulder and the shirt fell on the left side. He had purposefully left the stump uncovered. It had seemed like the right move when he was in his bedroom that morning but now it was uncovered and available for inspection, it seemed stupid. Altair’s face was perfectly blank, he was looking at the damage with the fine air of a professional artist (and Malik would know, as often as Leonardo inspected the wounds looking for new ways to describe them to him). 

“Do you,” Altair asked. He pulled the shirt back up onto Malik’s shoulder and tugged the edges close together, “remember what I did when I found out someone hurt my cousin?”

“Yes,” Malik said.

“Do you remember what happened to the boys that hurt your brother?”

Malik tipped his head back, contemplated that inch-or-so of height that gave Altair the slight advantage as close as they were. Altair’s hands slid under his shirt, spanned his waist on either side as Malik nodded.

“Then you have some idea of what I am willing and capable of doing when something hurts someone I love. You, and your body, and your insecurities are of the highest importance to me. I studied the art of vengeance at my Grandmother’s side. You will never fight alone.” Every word was true, every single one of them _absolute_ in certainty. The edge of violence in the tone was a fresh, primal blush of heat (and adoration).

“It won’t always be that kind of fight,” Malik said. 

“I know,” Altair said. “Just, tell me what you need if you know and we’ll figure it out. I’ve got good role models—Lucy and Desmond, the rest of them are awful. But Lucy and Desmond are good.”

Malik kissed him because he was there. Because he _could_ and it was as tender-and-sincere as his promise. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> be there in 5

“What the hell has this asshole done now?” Lucy asked. She had come home from work in a sour mood. While the wedding in May was a farce, they had made an almost decision to take time off to have an equally farcical honeymoon to go with it. Lucy wanted to go somewhere with tropical beaches and pretty drinks and Desmond liked the notion of Lucy in a bikini. Apparently, her boss had not been agreeable to giving Lucy almost three weeks off to prepare for the wedding, survive it and then run off to celebrate their faux-union. “I swear to _God_ if he called us up here just to cook for him I’m going to beat him to death.”

“You probably could,” Desmond said. The elevator announced their arrival on the top floor and Lucy growled as she stepped out first and immediately went into Altair’s. 

“Where are you, asshole?” she shouted. Desmond followed after her, pulled the door shut and looked curiously at the extra shoes and coat that were hanging on the hooks by the door. Altair’s second-favorite coat was on the hook and Desmond spent a whole sixteen seconds staring at it in confusion. He might have spent a few more seconds letting his brain catch up to the obvious conclusion but he was interrupted by the eruption of noise from the kitchen. 

Lucy was shouting, “you _son of a bitch!_ ” with a laugh in her voice and a scuffle of feet and bodies were moving around in the kitchen. Desmond walked in on Lucy hugging Kadar tight enough to make him huff a choked noise even as he grinned so hard his whole face looked twisted out of shape. 

Malik was sitting at the table with a plate of crumbs in front of him and a cup of still steaming coffee. He looked offended when he said, “don’t talk about our Mother like that.”

“Sorry,” Lucy said when she released Kadar. She wrinkled her nose up at him like she wanted to punch him and wasn’t very sure if it would be appropriate. Desmond had told her about the other boys that had hurt him and it hung in the air between Lucy’s intent and her reluctance. If Kadar was aware that his secret had been shared among all of them he didn’t show it.

“Sorry,” he said to Lucy. “But, we never said we _weren’t_ who we are.”

“Asshole,” Lucy said. Then she pulled out a chair and motioned at Kadar to sit down. Altair was at the counter, working on something that looked quite a bit like dinner while Maria sat next to Malik sipping wine and looking very pleased with herself. “So the _whole time_ we’re arguing about Sass—you let me argue about your brother in front of him!” She did lean forward to smack Kadar on the arm then but it was a soft-love-tap in comparison to her usual levels of violence. Her laugh was loud and brash before she looked across the table at where Malik was sipping coffee. “I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be,” Malik said. “He argues with everyone about it.”

“How are you even here?” But Lucy was shaking that question off before it could even be answered. “You’re perfect,” she said. 

Desmond went over to stand next to Altair and bumped his elbow into his cousin’s arm. “Sorry I almost killed your boyfriend,” he said. And then, maybe, “of course, you could have told me that you knew who Sass was. You could have told me it was a man.”

Altair had his fingers in a bowl of meat that he was mixing up with seasoning. It was too red to be pork (and really if Malik or his brother were Muslim they wouldn’t be serving pork anyway) but he wasn’t sure it was beef. Altair was smiling when he shrugged. “I didn’t tell anyone. Maria knew because she was there when I figured it out.” It was a fragile kind of appeal for forgiveness without apologizing. Altair looked over his shoulder in time to see Lucy point at Kadar and say:

“How old are you?”

“Uh, I turn eighteen on the twenty fourth,” Kadar said.

“Oh, happy birthday,” Lucy said, and then she looked over at Sass and pointed at him, “have you had sex yet? I just need to ask some things about his penis and you’re my last hope.”

Altair turned far enough to look at Malik, Maria turned in such a way she put her elbow on the table and rested her cheek against her hand. Kadar laughed but he also looked directly at his brother. Malik picked up his cup of coffee and sipped it before setting it down again. “It’s Sunday,” he said.

“So?” 

“Sex stories are on _Saturdays_ ,” he said. 

Lucy narrowed her eyes at him but Kadar laughed. Altair snickered as he turned back around to finish whatever he was doing. Desmond was leaning back against the counter with a settling sensation of disbelief feeding the surreal nature of the moment. Then he tipped his head to whisper, “have you had sex?”

“His brother and Maria have been here the whole time,” Altair whispered back. “Don’t tell anyone? Yet?”

Desmond nodded. “I won’t. And I’ll talk to Lucy.” Then he went over to pull out the chair next to Lucy and sat down. “I don’t know how you met the first time,” he said when the conversation stalled while Lucy worked out how to approach the conversation from a different angle.

“They fucked at prom,” Kadar said. “Then Altair went and told some reporter how he wasn’t gay at all and how his family ‘didn’t approve of that kind of thing’ and Malik wrote an entire manifesto of how much he hated Altair and did enough research on him to write a book in the twelve hours he had before our Mother took away his internet for like—a month? Two months?”

Lucy was listening with her mouth hanging open and Maria looked delightfully scandalized. Malik looked faintly embarrassed by the story but Altair actually turned around to stare at the back of Kadar’s head in disbelief and outrage.

Maria broke into a giggle and pressed her hand to her mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“Why did you get grounded?” Lucy asked, “how old were you?”

“Seventeen. I was supposed to come home the night of the prom by midnight and instead I came home the next morning after eleven? Almost noon because the manager of the hotel had to wake me up.”

Maria’s giggling had reached an interruptive point. “I’m sorry,” she said, “I just—you were a baby. You got _grounded_ by your _Mom_ for having sex with that idiot and look at where we are now.”

Lucy picked up the salt shaker off the table and threw it at Altair. It hit him on the right side of his back hard enough to make an audible thumping noise and Altair shouted in objection. “You asshole!” Lucy said. She was out of her chair in the next second, like she was ready to fight him by Desmond caught her by the arm and pulled her back. “You were woke up by the hotel manager?” Lucy repeated.

“Yes.” Malik nodded. “I was naked and covered in pizza sauce. I think my pants were on the curtain rod? I threw up in front of her too.”

Lucy put both of her hands on her face and shook her head in horror. “But, what the hell has he ever done that makes up for _that_? I understand one hundred percent about the blog and the vengeance but I’m not sure I could get past waking up naked, covered in pizza sauce the night after prom and getting grounded for having sex with a homophobic asshole.”

“He was a virgin too,” Kadar added.

Altair just sighed. Maria’s attempts to stifle her giggles failed and she glanced at Malik to see if he was mad. Rather than be angry, he just shrugged. “He has a really amazing body,” Malik said.

“I knew you loved me for my body,” Altair said. “Lucy, we need some kind of potatoes to go with this. Desmond, we need a vegetable.”

Lucy didn’t even complain about being put to work.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Do you want me to go sleep in the cousin’s place tonight?
> 
> No
> 
> So you aren’t having sex with your boyfriend?
> 
> I don’t think I am

It shouldn’t have been surprising to him that Altair had four versions of Scrabble. Still, in the late evening silence that followed everyone’s departure, the tentative offering of the Scrabble board surprised him. Altair had cleared off the table and shown Kadar where his room would be and given him a tour of the bathroom. Malik had sat in the big chair in the living room making friends with London who seemed to like everyone about the same so long as someone was holding her. 

They set up the game board in the kitchen and sat on opposite sides. “Was it really awful?” Altair asked. He arranged his letters three different times while he waited for Malik to lay down a word.

It would have been just as well to pretend like Malik didn’t know what he meant. But the whole evening had been poking fun at an old wound. “You mean the prom and what happened after?”

Altair just nodded. “I mean, did I hurt you? How bad was the aftermath for you—not physically but, because of what I did?”

Malik put the word ‘brown’ down on the board and then sat back in the chair. “I hadn’t told my Mother yet. I had tried so hard not to be gay. I thought if I was, I’d have to kill myself because I couldn’t bear the shame of it or put that shame on my Mother. I tried _everything_ to keep from being gay. You were just the final straw, you were just the one lucky bastard that I couldn’t convince myself I didn’t want to kiss.” Malik shrugged. “I don’t know if you hurt me when we had sex. I don’t remember being uncomfortable afterward but I also didn’t remember your dick being a small branch either.” Altair’s lips quirked up at that description before flattening down again. “I— It was like a switch was flipped. Instead of trying not to be gay, I spent all my time fucking whoever I could. I mean I hated myself but I convinced myself for a long time that I hated you instead. But it wasn’t ever _you_. It was always me.”

“Kadar says your Mom doesn’t like me,” Altair said. He picked through his letters indecisively. “Don’t forget to get your tiles.”

“My Mother does not like you. She doesn’t know much about you but what she knows does not make you a favorite. She’s the one that told me to come.” He pulled the velvet bag closer so he could wiggle his fingers inside of it and pick five tiles. And since they were sitting and talking (and not fucking), Malik said, “I don’t think we should have sex yet.”

Altair put down his word and then sighed. “I won’t pretend like that isn’t disappointing.” (It disappointed Malik too. It was disappointing enough he was trying to figure out why the hell he’d gone off and said it.) “Why?”

“I’ve never dated anyone. I know I can fuck you and leave. That’s what I’ve always done. It’s what I want to do. I want to drag you to bed and figure out how to ride your stupid dick. I’ve been thinking about for hours. It was my plan, the only one I had besides sneaking in and letting you know I knew. I don’t know how to make room for you in my life.”

“Didn’t you date Leonardo?” For such a loaded question it was remarkably innocent. Altair didn’t say Leonardo’s name with disgust but with detached fairness that seemed out of character for him.

“No. I had sex with Leonardo. I was friends with him. I never dated him. I never wanted him, I never made space in my life for him. I never tried to compromise for him. I didn’t care if he slept with other people. I don’t care now that he has moved on. Not in the way a lover would. If you touched someone else with intent, I would take a hacksaw to your penis.” Malik was staring at his letters trying to figure out how to make words in English when his head was backsliding into Arabic. It was the language of the interior of his house. The one that he returned to when he was looking for something familiar and safe. He sighed at the letters. 

“I dated a few people but I didn’t love them,” Altair said. “So what do we do? What’s going to happen now?”

“I have to go home,” Malik said. “My brother’s birthday is in a few days. I have to figure out where to go college, I have my cats—”

“You have more than one?” 

It hadn’t occurred to Malik that he hadn’t ever told Altair about Aquila. At first it had been embarrassment and then it was simply habit. “Yes,” he said, “Sailor and Aquila.”

Altair’s smile was so instant and so smug it was almost offensive. “Aquila?” he repeated.

“You have to finish getting your two million signatures,” Malik said. The words were absolute and flat in counter-point to the glee in Altair’s. “I think we owe it to the Saltair shippers to let this charade play out. Get your two million signatures and we can—come out of the closet together. Do one of your stupid youtube videos or something.”

“You named your cat after me,” Altair said. 

“You have tattoos on your body because of me.” Which was much more permanent. Rather than try to one-up him on that account, Altair just nodded his head. Then he reached over his head and pulled his shirt up and off. The black bar on his left arm was far darker in person than Malik was expecting the lines of the letters more definite and sharp than he imagined. The stupid word (grapes) on his hand was almost easily forgotten. Altair touched the black bar and the words above and below it. “Is that your Grandmother’s tattoo?”

“Oh, yeah,” Altair said. He stood up and turned so Malik could see how it curved around his side and up toward his ribs. It was even bigger than the picture made it seem. He was going to compliment the colors when he was interrupted by Altair pushing his pants down far enough to show off the rooster tattoo. “Also that one.” He smiled at Malik’s frown. “Desmond made that same face when I got it.”

“Sometimes, it’s very easy to remember why it’s a bad idea to have sex with you.”

Altair shrugged. Then he sat down. “But you need to play your word.”

\--

> **Sass**
> 
> but can I have your number
> 
> I am sitting next to you
> 
> you still answered
> 
> Yes you can have my number.  
> 

Malik smiled at his phone before he dropped it on the table by the couch. He leaned back against Altair and yawned. “I couldn’t sleep last night,” he said. It was after midnight-already, long past any sort of respectable bedtime. Kadar had come out an hour or more ago to say he was sleeping now. Malik’s hand found his and threaded their fingers together. “You haven’t really said anything.”

“I didn’t have time to prepare for this,” Altair said. He turned his head so they were bumping foreheads together, slouching on the couch, listening to the background noise of the TV playing some menu screen of a movie they hadn’t quite committed to watching. “I don’t want you to leave. I get that you have to, I think I understand what you’re saying. But I don’t want you to leave.”

“I don’t want to leave either—think of the things we haven’t worked out yet. How we’re even going to date, for instance. The commute to get here is too long for casual dinner dates—I mean I liked this, but not the almost six hour round trip that getting here and home again involves. That’s before I even figure out where I’m going to college and—”

“Ok, but I’m rich,” Altair said. Malik’s fingers squeezed his as hard as he could and it was enough pain to make him hiss a breath of disapproval. “I mean, anywhere you go, I can travel to you and just find a hotel or something to stay for a few days if necessary. I don’t have a home the way you do. My family is always spread out, everywhere, all the time. I think the bigger problem that we’re facing is—I don’t know how give blow jobs.”

Malik laughed but it wasn’t loud. It was a quiet hiccup of noise, shaking in his shoulders as he closed his eyes and ducked his head. When he looked up again his face was pink with amusement. “I think the fact that everyone, including you, has assumed I’m going to just bottom for you indefinitely is a problem.”

Altair shrugged. “I assume that because I’ve never _not_ been the top. It’s not a binding contract of expectation. I didn’t let Maria fuck me in the butt because I thought you might want to.”

There again, Malik’s smile was precious and feral at the same time. “You saved yourself for me?”

“It seemed fair at the time. Also, it seemed like you would have a better idea of what to do.” He was expecting Malik to laugh at him or maybe agree but he wasn’t expecting to get kissed. The touch of their lips was oh-so-sweetly lewd and promising. Malik’s fingers curled between his were a consistent pressure that distracted him from the mounting arousal that was plumping up his dick despite the hopelessness of the situation. “Not fair,” he mumbled.

“Not all immediate satisfaction is the best satisfaction,” Malik said. He pulled Altair’s hand up toward his face and turned his hand over to look at the numbers on his wrist. “I never found a picture of your Mother or Father. Back when I was still looking for them.”

“Grandma kept Father out of the press because he asked her to. My Mother died long before it was important that people have pictures of her. I have a few in my room. Did you want to see them?” When Malik nodded, Altair got up and pulled him to his feet. They went to the big closet in his room and sat on the floor with the boxes of photos and mementos that had followed him from the mansion-to-Mama Maria’s-to-here. 

Malik sat cross legged, looking through pictures of his Mother and father. “Do you ever miss them? Some days I don’t even remember to miss my Father and sometimes it feels like I’ll never stop. Kadar doesn’t remember him and Mother doesn’t talk about him a lot.”

Altair was looking at pictures of his Father, faded with age, and shrugged. “They made the choice, my Grandma and my Father, that Grandmother would always be my parent. She took care of me from the time I entered her house until she died. My Father was there but he wasn’t—it wasn’t the same. I miss what I could have had with him. I miss the idea that I _should have_ cared more about him while I had him. I can’t even tell you if I loved Umar because someone told me I should or if I even had a clear idea what a father when he died. I know _he_ loved me. I don’t know that I ever loved him the way I loved my Grandmother.” Altair shrugged and then picked up another picture, one of the old ones of the before era when Mama Maria was still a child and William was a round-faced boy with a mean looking grimace. He sneered at the picture. “When do you have to leave?”

“Tomorrow sometime. Kadar is already missing a day of school and his birthday is this week.” Malik leaned back against the shelf behind him. “I’m really tired.”

“Maybe we should go to bed,” Altair said. “I mean—I have a lot of spare rooms. You can pick which one you want.”

“Are you going to molest me while I’m sleeping?” The question was a joke but Altair sighed forlornly over the lost possibility. Malik rolled his eyes at him. “Come on. You have to be tired too.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> I am eating all the cereal. Its name brand. I have a bowl that is probably meant for making cake in. I found the remote.
> 
> Take your time. I found cartoons.
> 
> You’re ridiculous
> 
> I don’t want to go
> 
> Then don’t.
> 
> Don’t be stupid
> 
> It won’t be forever this time. 
> 
> You can do it.

Malik woke up with far less covers than he’d fallen asleep with. Altair had them wrapped around his body and left only a small portion of them out (possibly accidentally). While fighting him for the blankets was a viable option, getting up and investigating his bathroom was also an option. It was just as oversized as it seemed in the pictures and videos that Malik had gotten. It was possibly bigger than his own bedroom. The tub was massive, deep enough that several people could fit into it. The soaps and shampoos smelled vaguely familiar to him when he opened them and sniffed them. 

There was a shower in the corner that he considered trying to figure out how to work except that it was a glass square and as good as his resolve might have been to follow through with his plan, if he was naked when Altair walked in there was simply no way he could be expected to follow through with his own plan. He was smelling the aftershave on the counter when Altair walked in, yawning expansively and scratching his bare stomach. His hair was a disaster, sticking up all on the side. At first he didn’t seem awake enough to realize what he was looking at but then he smiled. “I steal the blankets,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

“That kind of thing can be a deal breaker,” Malik said.

“Well if the giant cock and the presumption of having to bottom indefinitely didn’t scare you off, and the endless criticism and excessive, wasteful wealth hasn’t sent you off in a moral outrage, I can _not_ imagine a little blanket hogging would do it. But I understand. Everyone has their limits.” He shuffled over to loop his arms around Malik’s body. There was a careful distance in the hug, both physically and some unseen thing. 

Malik turned around to face him. “I’m not afraid of your dick. I mean, I’m cautious but optimistic. Despite the common belief, I don’t actually bottom that often. The reason that I want to wait is not because of the size of your penis.” (What a conversation to be having.)

Altair smiled. “I am afraid of yours. I’m out of my depth.”

“Practice,” Malik said. He kissed Altair to smooth out the vaguely offended look on his face. “I’ll send my favorite videos to give you some ideas.” He was smiling but Altair was frowning at him. So he kissed him again and Altair just shook his head. “This is important,” Malik said. “I’m not torturing us for no reason.”

“Really? Because two million signatures seems a lot like torture when you’re begging old women who smell like Polident to believe in love again.” He growled and then let go of Malik. “If I work on my blow job skills, can you work on getting your Mom to like me? Is she more like you or Kadar?”

“She’ll either like you or she won’t. Nobody can convince her to change her mind.” Malik hesitated in place and then motioned out the door. “I’m going to go ask Kadar if he’s figured out when we have to leave.”

“I’m going to take a shower,” Altair said. 

\--

> **Mother**
> 
> We’re coming home tonight
> 
> We should be home by ten
> 
> Travel safely.
> 
> Did everything go well?
> 
> Well, I wasn't expecting Malik to decide not to have sex
> 
> Or to be stuck watching Altair and him play Scrabble
> 
> It’s a tense game
> 
> One day you may understand your brother.

Kadar wasn’t sure there was any point to trying to understand Malik. As soon as things he did made sense, he went off and changed his mind again. It was Scrabble on the table, making out against the counter while arguing (in Arabic, not that either of them seemed to realize they were speaking it) about the difference between a cookie and a cracker like it was the end of the world if someone gave, and Malik staring into empty space when Altair went to the bathroom. 

“Hey, are you okay?”

Malik blinked away from the dead-stare that had him looking at a corner full of nothing. “Huh? Oh—yes.” But Malik was terrible at keeping secrets (from him) and he said, “I really love him. I don’t know what I thought—maybe I thought I wouldn’t once I saw him? I’ve spent so long thinking he couldn’t love me? _Me_ , not Sass. As soon as we walk out of this door today we’re right back to pretending.”

“Why?” Kadar asked. “If it’s not what you want?”

“I don’t know what I want,” Malik said. The words were so quiet, it seemed like a revelation. “I want to stay. I want to have sex with him. I want to make a life right here and not worry about anything else—how easy would that be? I’d never have to work a day in my life. I’d never have to be concerned about anything. I wouldn’t be wearing clothes from the thrift store anymore— I want to leave so I know I can. I want to go to college wherever the hell I want. I don’t want to build my life around him. I want him to get on his knees and _grovel_ for what he did when I was seventeen. I didn’t even know I was still angry about that. Maybe I’m not.”

Kadar sighed. “You know what I want? To see my girlfriend, eat some tacos, finish my stupid English essay and go see a movie next weekend. Your life is too complicated. But if it matters, you’ll never be happy if you don’t have something to do: run a blog or work in an office, go to school or whatever. You need an occupation. Altair loves you. I mean, he loves you every minute of the day. I watched him look at you. You’re everything he wants.”

“I don’t want this to end like it did with Leonardo,” Malik said. 

“It can’t,” Kadar whispered back (since they were whispering), “because _you know_ that you love Altair. You still can’t believe that you ever loved Leonardo. Kiss your boyfriend, tell him you love him and make sure he believes it. Then send him out to grovel for signatures to prove how much he loves you.”

Malik smiled. “You’re stupid.”

“At least I’m not you,” Kadar retorted. Then he craned his head toward the sound of Altair coming back from the bathroom. “Just, do what I told you. Preferably not in front of me. I’ve seen enough of your tongue kissing to last a lifetime.”

\--

> **Altair’s Phone**
> 
> So when do I get laid? 2 million signatures or after I meet your Mom?
> 
> I haven’t even made it off the block you live on
> 
> I need to know before I masturbate. I’m building a fantasy.
> 
> Meeting my Mother will be harder than two million signatures
> 
> And where will we have this hypothetical sex? Your place? Mine? A hotel?
> 
> We will not be having sex at a hotel
> 
> My place?
> 
> Fine
> 
> Good.
> 
> I miss you.
> 
> You’re ridiculous. Go masturbate. I will miss you when I’ve actually been gone long enough to miss you
> 
> Well text me when you get to that point

Kadar was leaning against the door of the taxi, watching the city go by. “I don’t think you’d like New York,” he said out of nowhere. “You need to get him to move somewhere with more trees.”

“I need trees?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “Look at where you went to college. That’s like the tree capital of the world. Do you think Mom will let me get another one of the cakes from the store? I mean, I’m going to be eighteen but it’s what I really want.”

“You’re going to be eighteen. I’m pretty sure you can have any cake you want.” Malik frowned at his phone and out the window at the sidewalks and the people. The growing distance between where he wanted to be and where seemed like the most logical place to go made his chest start to hurt. He picked his phone up again to send:

> Now I miss you
> 
> It sucks.
> 
> Get your stupid signatures
> 
> I will.


	61. Chapter 61

> **Sofia**
> 
> You ACTUALLY went to see him? In person? Why? What was he like? What did he smell like? Did you have sex with him? Is his penis really as big as Leonardo said it was?
> 
> Because he knew who I was
> 
> He’s very firm, just as dumb, he smells clean. Very clean. Well kept
> 
> I jerked him off and he looked at my chest but I didn’t take my pants off
> 
> Why?
> 
> I had this thought that if I fucked him I wouldn’t be able to have a relationship with him
> 
> It’s been nine hours since I left him
> 
> I have reached the lowest point of depression
> 
> By that you mean you’ve spent six hours watching porn and you’re trying to figure out how to fuck yourself with the giant birthday dildo because you’re stupid and you didn’t climb on his mammoth dick when you had the chance?
> 
> four hours, I’m sending him relevant videos so he can have a frame of reference
> 
> The rest is right
> 
> I think you did the right thing. 

Mother came home from work with a smile still stuck sideways on her face and a single flower dangling from her gloved hand. Malik watched her carry it carefully to the kitchen where Kadar was finishing up dinner and listened to the two of them talking about where it had come from and how nice it would look on the dining room table. She brought it back out and set the flower (in a skinny vase) in the center of the table before she came over to sit next to him. 

Malik said, “from Mr. Jacobs?”

“Yes,” Mother said. “I believe he wants to convince me that our relationship should evolve past longing and careful conversations. I am not sure how to encourage him proportionately.” Then she sighed and looked at him. Her fingers worried at his hair—a terrible mess from hours on the train and rolling around in his bed feeling vaguely sorry for himself—before moving away. “How was he in person?”

There were a thousand answers to that. Shallow-hollow-ones like the ones that he’d given Sofia and laughable-stupid-ones like the jokes he’d shared with Kadar on the train. Things about how Altair stole blankets and had a drawer of make-up in his bathroom and how he could be convinced to cross dress for fun whenever Malik was feeling peevish enough to demand it. (Kadar’s words, breathless with laughter, had been _that man would do anything for you. You owe it to everyone to exploit it._ ) “He’s a lot more timid than I thought he’d be,” Malik said. It wasn’t only Altair that had seemed to be stunned into a quiet-and-careful version of himself. The immenseness of reality had crushed Malik’s thoughts to neat little rows. 

Hours after lust and depression wore off, Malik was left feeling something like a liar. 

“He is afraid of you?” Mother asked. Her eyebrow made it seem like a question but the smile that crossed her face implied it was a statement. Her amusement was a soft gasp of breath before she rubbed her hand on his shoulder. “Often, getting what you want is frightening when you’ve convinced yourself you don’t deserve it.” Then she nudged his side with her elbow. Malik knew (without having to bother with clarification) that it was a dig at _him_ and not a justified worry about Altair’s ego. But Mother had already moved on to say, “what did he think of you?”

Malik smiled. Altair’s hands on his skin was a ghost of sense memory that he hadn’t managed to shake in all the hours since he’d left him. “I think I made a good impression. I met his cousin and his cousin’s girlfriend and they seemed to like me. Everyone loved Kadar.”

Kadar was standing in the doorway between the dining room and living room with oven mitts on both hands and a persistent smile on his face. “That’s because I’m lovable. Lucy tried to beat up Altair over you so I think she likes you.” And when Mother raised her eyebrows to question that line out thought, Kadar said, “I told them how Altair and Malik met.” 

“Good,” Mother said. “Someone should be willing to explain to him the error of his actions.”

“That’s—Mom, that’s exactly what I’ve been doing for three years,” Malik said. He motioned at the computer that was sitting on the coffee table and Mother patted him on the knee like she was apologizing for his gross misunderstanding of the world. 

“Dinner’s ready,” Kadar said as he laughed to himself and went back toward the kitchen. Mother got up to follow him even while Malik stared at their backs and motioned at the laptop again.

“Three years,” he said again.

\--

>   
>  **Interviewer** : So, you’ve had a fairly exciting week.  
>  **Maria** : I would not categorize my week as especially exciting. It wasn’t exactly a secret that my boyfriend was in love with someone on the internet. I think anyone that has more than casual knowledge about Altair knows about his affair with his online nemesis.  
>  **Interviewer** : Ah, yes. I believe that they are calling them—Salt—  
>  **Maria** : Saltair. For Sass and Altair. Yes, it has a fairly large following on the internet. I received quite a bit of anonymous hate mail over getting between the two of them and of course, more importantly, in my attempt to shield myself from discovery, I kept Altair from pursuing a relationship he actually wanted to be in.  
>  **Interviewer** : Is that why you decided to go public? That sense that you were being dishonest?  
>  **Maria** : No. My feeling about sharing my sexual orientation is that it’s really nobody’s business but my own. I decided to share that information because I had the unconditional support of my now very close friend, Altair. And that is why I feel it’s just as important that I take this opportunity to tell everyone that’s watching to sign his petition. It’s a pretty simple petition considering the history behind it.  
>  **Interviewer** : How did they meet one another, Altair and Sass?

“My face hurts,” Maria said when she met him for lunch. She slapped her clutch purse down on the table top and sat opposite him with the grace of a collapsing frat boy on a binge. Then she pulled a hair tie off her wrist to put her hair up away from her face. Her cheeks were pink from the chill and her own aggravation. “I smiled for an hour straight while they nagged me with questions and it didn’t matter how many times I deflected them, they just kept _trying_. I’m going to fuck the first girl that I meet that looks remotely interested and I’ll send them the pictures.”

The waitress (a young woman named Marjorie) stopped a foot away from the table with a curious but sincere smile. It was impossible to believe she hadn’t heard what Maria said. But Maria smiled at her sweetly, “I’d like water please.” Then she picked up her menu and flipped it open in aggravation.

Altair picked up his cup to take a drink and set it down again. “I think she’d be into it. Maybe not the public exhibitionist part. She’s cute though. You should go for it.” He turned his head to watch Marjorie walk back toward the kitchen and then turned back again to look at Maria flatly frowning at him. “I noticed a got a nice bump in signatures on the petition. I was thinking about making more shirtless videos. Those always seem to get views.”

“And it just has the added bonus of inciting jealousy and possessive feelings from the actual person you plan on spending your life with?” Maria asked. She put her hand flat on the table and just stared at him. It was the full brunt of her flat-death-glare and it left him feeling unworthy in a way that dragged a sigh out of his chest. 

“Fine, I’ll keep my shirt on,” Altair said. “I’ll just go on Twitter and start begging for signatures.”

“That seems safer.” Then Maria sat back in her chair and sighed. “She was cute though. Did she really seem interested?”

“Flirt with her, if she flirts back maybe she’s interested,” Altair said. He picked up his phone while Maria smiled charmingly at the waitress walking back toward them. He ignored her sweet-toned flirting and she ignored him sending annoying texts to his boyfriend.

\--

Son-of-no-one: “RT: Saltair-shipper: THERE’S A PETITION! WHOSE CRAZY NOW?” Me. I’m crazy for @Sass-Badger. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: “RT: starcrrrrrrushed: EVERYONE STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND GO SIGN THIS PETITION. BELIEVE IN LOVE!” I like your style, @ starcrrrrrrushed. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: “RT: Freddysays_exlax: petition? More like publicity stunt. Why do people even care about this person?” If you sign this petition there’s a 98% chance that some TV network will make a movie to answer your question. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: “RT: Altairs_awesome_ass: SIGN THE PETITION, WE STILL NEED OVER A MILLION SIGNATURES” Even my ass wants you to sign this. (1h ago)

Notyourbrother: @son-of-no-one, ok but if they make a movie out of your life would they cast you as yourself? (20m ago)

Sass_Badger: @notyourbrother, no I think they’d hire a competent actor. Someone that wouldn’t keep breaking character. (10m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I’d like to disagree with you @sass_badger, but that’s probably the most accurate answer. (4m ago)

Kadar was at Stephanie’s house again, sitting in her dining room helping her sort through the colleges that she’d applied to while she fretted about the acceptance letters that weren’t even due to come out for weeks (or months, depending). But Stephanie was leaning forward into the computer screen with her nails between her teeth and her hair falling over her shoulders. “Which one would be your ideal college?”

“Hawaii,” Stephanie said, she didn’t even look over her shoulder at him when she said it but dropped her hand down to type in the long-memorized address of the university and waited for the screen to load. “I mean, I’ve always wanted to go but it’s a good school too. My parents want me to get accepted _here_ , and stay at home. I told them, even if I got accepted at a local college that I’d want to live in the dorms but they say that it would be an unnecessary waste of money.” Then she did lean back and look at him. “It would amazing to live in Hawaii.” Then she made a noise that couldn’t be qualified as anything and sighed. “What about you? What’s your dream school?”

The shameful truth was that Kadar didn’t have a dream school (but a list of universities that he applied to because Malik told him it was a good idea and most likely a good fit). His notion of success wasn’t tied up in occupation. He had zero ideas about what the hell he even wanted to study in college and that lack of direction left him with no particular desire to go anywhere. Rather than worry about figuring it out, he had simply not thought about it. His future was a non-specific haze of half-realized daydreams about what he was going to do. “I don’t know.”

Stephanie frowned at him (not so unlike the way Malik did when Kadar failed to have a plan for his life). “You said that you wanted to get involved in putting an end to bullying. Did you want to be a teacher? A psychologist? A principle?”

Kadar frowned.

Stephanie huffed at him. There was a whole lecture that was working up there as her tongue flashed out across her pink lips but just before she could start in about he needed to be more responsible with his future, she stopped. She shook her head, “it’s your birthday and my Mom’s going to be home in half an hour so I’m not going to spend this time telling you how these are important things for you to really be thinking about.”

“I mean, you can if you want,” Kadar said. He smiled in the way that always made Stephanie roll her eyes at him but she stood up and reached down to pull at his hand. His whole body had developed an automatic response to being touched, every part of his skin was hyper-aware of her specific touch. He was hard before she even tugged him toward the stairs. “Do I get my present now?”

“One of them,” Stephanie said. 

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> I am at the old house
> 
> We’re on our way
> 
> In which case it is important to note that Mother is also here.
> 
> I expected she would be

Lucy was driving because Desmond was distracted. The certainty that he _wanted_ to confront his father had almost no bearing on the perilous anxiety that gnawed its way out of his chest. It ran circles around his head and beat at the inside of his chest until his ribs were sore. 

“So, explain to me how your family happened? Like who had the mansion? It’s not the Auditore mansion?” Lucy looked bored when she drove. Like she could lay her cheek against the window and fall asleep at any given second. 

Desmond explained it to her while they drove. The convoluted mess that started with his Grandmother and Grandfather failing at marriage and ending with the sudden and total cut that removed every member of the family (save Altair) from the will. Lucy was annoyed by the bureaucracy half way through the story but she was wrinkling up her nose in obvious disgust by the time they parked in front of the old mansion. 

“So,” she said turning in her seat with one hand on the wheel, “your Grandmother was basically the devil. Altair was raised _by the devil_.” While Desmond had always tried to be fair about his family before (and each person’s particular strengths and weaknesses) it had never once occurred to him to question Phyllis. She had been his savior when he needed one. The whole fucking world had been immense and crushing and she had sat at the kitchen table with him, pouring hot tea into his cup and listening without interruption to every stuttering admission he had to give. In the whole of his life, the only single person that ever _believed_ him without condition, without pause _was_ Phyllis. 

It had been Phyllis that hugged him. It was Phyllis that fought for him when the others came screaming spite and blaming him for lies he hadn’t said. Phyllis who gave _him_ the terrible wealth that she refused the ones that wanted it. It was her hand that held his when he cried and it was _her son_ that believed him, that fought for him, that _waged war_ on his behalf. 

“Phyllis was—absolute,” Desmond said. “I think everyone is the devil of someone’s life. She wasn’t the devil in mine.”

Lucy pursed her lips together and sighed. “Fair enough.” Then they climbed out of the car with their poor duffle of clothes and went around to the kitchen entrance. The interior of the house smelled like tomato-soaked bliss with Mama Maria standing by a bubbling pot on the stove and Federico looking bored and disinterested at the table spinning a glass of wine by the stem. He was slouched in the chair with his knees spread, staring at the swirls of the liquid and when he looked toward them it was a slow-drag of insolence at being interrupted. 

“Hello Desmond,” Mama Maria said before Federico could speak, “and Lucy. Federico,” she turned her head toward her son and he looked over at her with an instant smile slipping across his face. “Show them to their room. We have chosen to occupy the downstairs rooms at the request of your cousin that William not be allowed to freely wander the house.”

Federico got up from his seat and motioned Desmond forward. Rather than taking the back hallway to the staircase they went down to the rooms that had been used exclusively for the staff. They were small rooms, cramped into a single corner of the house. Each of them barely larger than a box, offering no more furniture than a single chair at a narrow desk, a dresser and a bed. 

“There you are,” Federico said. 

“Why do we have to sleep down here if it’s William that can’t go anywhere in the house?” Lucy asked. “What difference does it make where we’re sleeping?”

Federico hovered in between motion and speaking before he stilled on his feet and lifted a hand to rub at the back of his neck. “Where you sleep doesn’t matter, but waking up the house takes work and the upstairs rooms are larger and more difficult to prepare. If we aren’t going to be wandering the halls, there’s no reason to go switching on the lights and dusting the furniture.” Then he tapped his knuckles against the doorframe. “Mother’s making dinner, feel free to come eat whenever you’re settled.”

They dropped their stuff when Federico left. Lucy sat on the bed and Desmond picked at the desk. “Are you hungry?” Lucy asked.

“We should eat. It would be rude not to show up.” From the expression on Lucy’s face, she was far from worried about being rude, but they went down to the kitchen anyway. They made small talk with Mama Maria about her recipes until they fell into strained silence.

“I think I will go check on Mrs. Finch,” Maria said. “Could you see that the dishes are cleaned up?”

Federico nodded and Mama Maria excused herself to leave. In the darkening pit of silence created by her departure, Lucy reached across the table to pick up the wine glass and poured her glass full to the brim. 

“This family,” she said before she tipped the cup up and drank it all. Then she set the glass down again and filled halfway before motioning the bottle in Federico’s direction. He scooted his glass close to her so she could fill it and then pulled it back again. 

“I don’t like this house,” Federico said. “I don’t like William.”

Desmond didn’t even mean to ask it before the words were falling out of his mouth (the same way they had when Mama Maria stood in this kitchen asking for his forgiveness), “what did you do to him?”

Federico’s mouth was stained with the red wine, but the slow-burn of compassionless hate was what made his face a horror. He licked away the drink from the edges of his mouth and set the cup against the table with a small clap of glass-on-wood. “There is not much that I have ever admired about you, Desmond. We were not given the appropriate opportunities to understand one another. While the majority of our family operates with violence and retribution, you—alone—have weathered through your own hell without drawing blood. There is nothing inherently _violent_ about you and it is better that you never get a taste for it. Physical retribution is only satisfying to men with no morals and no better methods.”

“I know my father, Federico. He’ll put this on me. He’ll say it was my idea. He’ll tell me everything that you don’t want to. When he does, I don’t want to be hearing it for the first time.”

And then Federico drew in a breath and let it out again. “I beat him until he was crying on the floor begging me to quit,” Federico said. He shrugged with his mouth turned down in a sour frown, neither impressed nor horrified at the words. “That’s not on you. Don’t let him put it on you.”

Lucy was frowning behind the rim of her cup but Desmond just nodded. “Thank you for telling me.”

Then Federico just looked at him, eyes narrow and head cocked to the side like he was trying to work out something that he hadn’t even taken the time to think through before. They hadn’t ever been friends, Federico-and-him. Ezio was closer to Desmond’s age, closer to his height when they were boys. Federico was tall and old, always off doing something else and avoiding the babies. “Does he know you’re here?”

“My Father?” Desmond asked. But no, of course not. William (so far as Desmond knew) had no chance of knowing where he was or what he was doing. “Altair? No. This doesn’t have to do with him this time. Besides he’s mounting a romantic offensive to convince Sass to meet him in person.”

“Cristina made me sign that,” Federico said. Then he took a drink and frowned at it. “Sass probably has a dick.”

Lucy spit wine all over the table and choked. She was trying not to laugh while she turned red and held out her hand toward Federico saying, “I’m sorry, I just—I’m sorry.” And Federico wiped the wine off his face and his shirt with a smile on his face. 

“Well, if you’re right, I guess it’s a good thing that Altair decided he likes that kind of thing,” Desmond said. Then he picked up his napkin and held it out toward Federico so he could finish mopping the mess up off the table. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I may have just realized I can send you pictures
> 
> If this turns into a constant assault of dick pictures I’m taking back my signature
> 
> Your brother told me once you really liked me shirtless
> 
> now that I’ve seen you drool over my chest
> 
> I did not drool
> 
> there’s no reason to send you dick pictures
> 
> Your logic here being that I would not drool about your dick
> 
> Most people drool on my dick, not about it
> 
> Has anyone actually throwing up trying to suck you off? I need to know what my competition is like.
> 
> Yes. She was drunk though. I tried to tell her
> 
> How noble of you. How’s your gag reflex?
> 
> I cannot swear that I’ve ever tested it.
> 
> Why didn’t I get to see your dick?
> 
> Because you would have tried to touch it.
> 
> That is exactly the point
> 
> You’re basically a virgin. I need you to practice before you move on to inflict your fledgling skills on my personal body parts.
> 
> I’m a quick study, how hard is sucking dick, really
> 
> You’re still over a million signatures and a few minor miracles away from finding out  
> 

Altair took half a minute to try to convince himself not to send any stupid responses to Malik (since he was in his professional clothes) but he couldn’t talk himself out of sending: _we need to work on your flirting_

And almost immediately, Malik sent him, _no, you need to work on your dick sucking technique. Maybe you should buy a practice dick_. 

It wasn’t even a dirty message or a text that made any sort of promises but a sudden flush of heat rolled through Altair’s body. The implication (the very near promise) that dick-sucking would be in his future. And wasn’t it a funny thought because Altair hadn’t ever considered it before when he was half-day-dreaming about making out with handsome men. His ideas of sex with men were juvenile and immature in comparison to the sense memory of sex with women. There was Malik, not-so-far-away, making easy demands about his expectations while Altair was stuck in boardroom hell with a gust of breath punched out of his lungs by the immediate, humiliating, stiffening of his dick in his pants. 

Altair could have excused himself but there was conceivable way he could have made it out of the room without one or more of the men figuring out why he was limping his way to the nearest empty room. Rather than try to deal with exposing the problem, he put his phone on silent mode and devoted his whole attention to every minute, boring detail of the meeting. 

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> Mother wants to speak to you. She’s alone.
> 
> She also refuses to text people.

Desmond went to the kitchen without Lucy. He showed her to the bathroom and left her to shower while he went to deal with his aunt. Mama Maria was a useful practice for his father. 

“Good morning,” he said when he came into the kitchen. There was coffee waiting for him and he did not stop to wonder about the ulterior motives of the gesture but sat down at his place to sip at it gratefully. “How are you?”

“It has been brought firmly to my attention that my efforts should not be wasted on mourning the inevitable death of an old woman but concentrated on securing your happiness. I have heard about your intentions to marry Lucy this May but I did not put any thought into them. Are you sincere in your desire to have a wedding at this house?”

Mama Maria said the words with the full depth of knowledge of the many slights and indignities that these walls had housed. Then she waited, one hand over the other, while he tried to think through what he wanted to say in response. 

“Yes,” was the only suitable answer. The reasoning would only undermine his certainty. Mama Maria had never seen the point in justifications when simple answers would do. Rather than poke holes at his resolve, she nodded.

“Would you like my assistance in planning your wedding?” 

“We haven’t decided,” Desmond said. “We don’t really know anything about planning a wedding. I think Lucy wanted to call her Mother and have her come help, but I imagine we’d still be out of our depth. Could you recommend someone trustworthy and reliable to help?” It was not quite turning down Mama Maria’s offer but it was not accepting her help either. 

“Of course,” she said. And then the matter was neatly cleaned up and she unfolded her hands to take a drink of her own coffee. When she set it down again, she cleared her throat and said, “what about when you face your Father? Where would you like me to be?”

“Not in the room,” Desmond said. 

Mama Maria nodded her head. “Then I will not be. He should be here within the hour. You are welcome to see him before he goes to Mrs. Finch or you can wait until after. Whatever is best for you.” She was tidying up the whole affair before it even began, laying it out so it would lay flat and be dealt with swiftly. 

“I’ll think about it.” 

Lucy walked in before Mama Maria could offer advice or rebuttal. Lucy was smiling pleasantly with her towel-dried hair brushed down over her shoulders. She stopped in the doorway to hover indecisively before Desmond motioned her in and then she came around the table (behind Mama Maria) to slide her hand across his shoulder and lean down to kiss him. “What’s breakfast?” she asked. 

“Coffee, right now,” he said. 

Lucy took the cup from him and sniffed it. She sipped out of the cup and grimaced at it before giving it back to him. Then she turned to look at Mama Maria like she’d only just noticed she was there and said, “good morning,” with as much fondness as she could fake.

Mama Maria was amused-not-offended. “Good morning, Ms. Stillman. Congratulations on your engagement even if it is only a ruse. Mrs. Finch is looking forward to the ceremony.” 

Desmond looked up at Lucy to see the even stretch of her smile even as her fingers slid into the open space at the back of his collar. Her fingers were pressing in against his skin, just the pads and not the nails, in the way that meant she no longer wanted to be in the situation she found herself in. It was reserved for stale parties and family obligations and seemed especially appropriate as she stared back at Mama Maria. “Only the wedding is a ruse, Mrs. Auditore. The engagement is not.” 

“We should get a ring,” Desmond said. He didn’t pull Lucy’s left hand out of his shirt but she looked at him with one eyebrow lifted up in brief, furious curiosity before dropping it again. “Did you want me to make something for breakfast?” He wasn’t looking at Mama Maria to see her expression but he knew well enough after a lifetime of spending time in her kitchens that she was frowning about the offer. Lucy was-a-woman, was the caretaker-of-the-home and Desmond didn’t belong in the kitchen mucking around with the pots and pans. 

“If you want,” Lucy said. She slid her hand out of his shirt when she stepped back to give him space to stand up.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Where are you taking me for our first date?
> 
> I like Mexican places for dates, they generally give you an infinite number of tortilla chips.
> 
> And you really like tortilla chips?
> 
> No, but chewing them drowns out the small talk
> 
> Do you actually understand the concept of romance?
> 
> The only guy I ever tried to date was a poor attempt to prove to myself I wasn’t shallow
> 
> Or a slut. I failed on both accounts.
> 
> This explains everything about you that’s remained unclear.
> 
> Traditional dates include dinner that you enjoy, movies, theater, museums, picnics, you know things that are mutually enjoyable.
> 
> Things that give you time to talk to one another but also entertain you.
> 
> I like the options that include food.
> 
> That is progress. So a first date with food.

Kadar didn’t ask him what he was grinning about which mean he already knew or didn’t care. (As inconceivable as it was that Kadar might not care about him grinning at his phone in the early afternoon.) He was rubbing his knee in the particular way that meant he was bothered by something.

“What?” Malik asked.

“I don’t know what I want to do when I grow up—I mean I know what I want to do but I don’t know how? I don’t know where? I don’t even care what college I get into? You were Valedictorian. I’m—that guy who got a bunch of girls to challenge the schoolboard. You know they’re writing an article about Jenna in the paper? It’s a big deal. Not that it’s going to change the school board’s mind but the junior class is already talking about mounting a continuing protest next year.” Then he huffed a sigh. “I mean, you’re going to marry some super rich guy and you still have more interest in your future profession than me.” 

“I feel like this kind of pity party needs Thai. Get your coat and shoes.” Malik went to make himself presentable for leaving the house and they walked out of the neighborhood to the bus stop. They talked about nothing-much (the weather, Kadar’s college options in brief bursts of forced interest) and then, after they were sitting with their glasses of water waiting on their orders:

“My girlfriend is hoping to move to Hawaii. I don’t know if I should feel bad for hoping she doesn’t because I don’t want to miss her or not. But I don’t want her to get in. What better alternative do I have? Stephanie stay with me and my nonspecific dreams of a semi-honorable future?” Kadar picked at the paper napkin on the table. “Whatever, are you still stringing your boyfriend along?”

“It’s good for him,” Malik said. “Of course you don’t want her to go, Kadar. You like her, she’s important to you. There’s nothing wrong with feeling that way as long as you’re capable of realizing that it’s selfish and that you should support her dreams and wish for them with her.”

“Life was easier when I was a kid.”

“Three days ago?” 

Then Kadar dug into the glass of water to pluck out an ice cube and threw it at him. “Yes,” he said far louder than it needed to be said, “ _three days ago_. What a jerk. How is the petition going? I got Stephanie to tell a few of her friends about it and they’re the chatty kind so I’m sure half the school knows about it.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Understand I’m only telling you this because I need your support
> 
> I’m standing outside the old house
> 
> waiting for my Father to finish saying good-bye to Mrs. Finch
> 
> I left Lucy inside
> 
> Federico told you.
> 
> Yes
> 
> You can do this, Desmond.
> 
> Doesn’t feel like it right now
> 
> You’re stronger than anyone in our family, Desmond. They all tried and not even all of them working together could break you.
> 
> Tell the old man he’s a lonely, impotent, soulless bitch that deserves to live his life exiled from our family.
> 
> Sounds like you’ve been rehearsing this speech
> 
> I feel like we both know if I have the chance to meet William again, we will not be speaking.
> 
> Desmond?
> 
> Good luck.

Desmond had nudged into the sort of cold that defied typical levels of chill. His hands had started to ache and the cold had wormed its way under all the layers of his clothing to sink deep into his skin to the muscle until every part of him was the kind of frozen-blue that took hours to thaw again. Absent the same motivation to stand and wait for his Father here, lagging with indecision and worry, his body had simply stopped fighting the cold. He sat on the steps of the old house with his head ducked and his arms crossed over his chest. 

It wasn’t so unlike when he was a child, sitting in the corner of the kitchen, contemplating breaking the locks on the pantry door because he was hungry. School lunch could only sustain a boy so long and it seemed like it would be hours until he was given dinner. Father would find him, in his corner, waiting to be found. Sometimes he asked for help with dinner and sometimes he laughed at him. 

_Hunger’s good for you_ , William used to tell him, _it reminds you of your place in the world._

The footsteps around the gravel that led toward the kitchen behind them made Desmond turn his head and tuck his phone away again. The quick-quick beat of his heart was far more troublesome than the rush of liquid heat that ran through his belly but neither of them were comforting. He unfolded himself from the steps and tucked his hands down into his coat pockets. 

The last time he’d seen his father was when William was still a monster to him, something larger-and-more powerful than Desmond could ever become. He was made of stern, mean things, filled out by long hours in the fields and lopsided dinners with William’s plate heaped full. The sound of his father’s voice was terrible thunder, the most ominous noise of fear a child could imagine and it echoed in his head, shrill and quaking. His fists were threatening hammers, always suspended and never falling (but they could-oh-they-might because worthless boys deserved it most). 

And yet, the old man that came around the side of the building was not the monster of his childhood. He was bent against the cold, wrapped up in warm clothes with a generous blue hat covering the gray of his hair. His face was obscured with glasses, his cheeks lean with lack of meat. The recognition that crossed his face was as delayed as the impotent fear that shot through Desmond. This was not the monster of his childhood all save for the curl of its smile and the sudden quickening-arrogance of its spine.

“Well now, _Desmond_ ,” William said. 

“Dad,” Desmond said. It was a sneaky, pervasive thing that word: _Dad_ because there was no part of him that remembered with any particular fondness the things that William had done for him as a child. There were compulsory kindnesses, the sort that were demanded of him in public places. There were private allowances (a nightlight, earned through ensuring his continued captivity in his father’s house by keeping his teeth clenched around the truth) but there was no genuine affection that had ever earned the title. William had simply programmed the word into Desmond’s throat the way he’d programmed so many other things into his head. 

William stepped forward with more authority than he’d shuffled up around the house with. He was shorter now than Desmond was, stood a greater distance from him with the same perfect smile on his face as he cocked his head and looked him over. “A luxurious life suits you. I suppose the apple does not fall far from the tree.”

“I’m not your apple,” Desmond said. “I never was.”

Then William laughed and looked over to the side. There was no adoring audience to partake of his wit. So when his Father looked back at him, the cruel look of _power_ that had haunted Desmond’s childhood was a barren shell of _arrogance_. His mask was crooked across his bony cheeks. “Aren’t you?” William said. “I brought you here to endear you to Phyllis. She was very kind hearted to needy children. You wouldn’t know it but she was always exceptionally generous to Maria considering her unfortunate situation. I suppose if your Mother is a whore that you really have limited options. You did exactly what I trained you to do, Desmond. Not exactly the way I trained you, but children can be headstrong at times.”

Desmond was gritting his teeth like he could snap the words into pieces, thinking back to the futile fighting that had raged for days when Phyllis refused to disinherit him. Desmond had bartered and begged and even tried demanding that she _keep the money_ because he didn’t want it. It was his in the end, a neat sum waiting for his eighteenth birthday. She had left him the number of an investment specialist and the quiet reassurance that even if the wealth was not wanted, there was no reason it should be wasted.

But it was _exactly_ what his father had raised Desmond for. It was _exactly_ what William had whispered in his ear when he shoved him through the door of the mansion. It was the perfect culmination of a lifetime of trying. (Desmond had known that then, when he asked her not to do it, and he knew it now with his father smiling-so-smugly at him.)

“Did you piss yourself?” Desmond asked. The stuttered shock on William’s face was an echo of the steely-blank _recklessness_ that turned hard in his chest. The phone in his pocket was vibrating, the bodies behind the doors were pressed to glass watching for any sign he needed help. Desmond had spent his childhood in corners, under his bed and tucked away in the back of classrooms. He’d hidden in voluminous jackets, in the anonymity of mediocrity (afraid in equal measures to stand out or fall behind) and behind a pale frown of obedience that drove his cousins to dance in circles around him calling him a baby and a whiner. 

Oh-and he’d done his time in the hell of Mama Maria’s pristine house, attacked on two fronts by full-grown-men that sided with William. Marking minutes off the days, days off weeks, weeks off years until he could _escape_ again. When he walked out of Mama Maria’s house the only thought he had was how to get the _fuck_ away _from all of them_.

“Excuse me?” William said. The slow drag of his voice had been the odd wind of an approaching tornado in the dim years. 

“Did you,” Desmond repeated. “Piss yourself when he hit you? I haven’t been hit by him but I have heard enough stories.” 

William’s face flushed red. “I suppose you put him up to it? You think you know all about it. What that monster did—what the other one did. You never did learn to stand up for yourself, you’ve always had to hide behind whatever looked sturdiest.” The embarrassment that twisted his face out of his shape infected his voice with weakness. “It’s no surprise to me Phyllis raised a monster.”

Desmond let a soft breath out through his nose. “Altair didn’t touch you.”

“You think that you’re told everything?”

“No.” Desmond shook his head with his hands uncurling from fists in his pocket. “But I asked him not to. You,” Desmond said (and this was _very important_ , “are nothing. You are not worth the effort. You are not worth the paperwork. You’re not worth the lawyer’s fees. You’re not worth anything to me. You didn’t break me. You didn’t win. I have my family and we will never spare another thought about you again.”

William laughed (cold-and-bluffing). “Do you think so?”

The door opened behind Desmond and Lucy stepped out on delicate-bare-feet. She slid her arm around Desmond’s back and he lifted her arm to rest across her shoulders. One of her hands pressed against his chest and she tipped her head up to look at him (not at William). “I finished lunch,” she said. “It’s getting cold.”

Desmond looked down at her and smiled. Lucy’s fingers were pressed against his back, through the coat, the vicious-white-gleam of her teeth was begging for an excuse to exercise violence. Desmond nodded his head. “Let’s go eat,” he said. Then they turned to head back in the house even as Federico ducked through the open doorway. 

His voice through the still-open door was loud enough to be heard, saying, “you’re excused, you can _go_.” And William’s was indistinct but Federico’s was so-loud and so-boastful saying, “next time I’ll tell _him_ to come himself, yeah?” 

Lucy turned to face him in the wide-open front room and wrapped both her arms around him. Her fingers were painful warmth against the cold at the back of his neck. “You’re amazing,” she said, “you’re the most amazing person I’ve ever met.” 

Desmond didn’t feel _amazing_ but _exhausted_ and thin. He hugged her back and let her kiss him and shivered because he was _cold_ until Federico closed the door behind them. He stood in the room with them only long enough to give an awkward nod before he headed back toward the kitchen.

“I owe him money. I said you’d slap William, he said you wouldn’t,” Lucy said softly. But she kissed him on the cheek again. “Come on, lunch wasn’t a lie.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> When I was in high school I knew I was gay but I was sure I could convince myself I wasn’t. So I created this rubric to help me find a wife.
> 
> To have genetically successful children, she needed to be conventionally attractive.
> 
> For compatibility, she needed to be agnostic or minimally religious, preferably Christian or Muslim. 
> 
> For harmony, she would need to be independent, expect to work but be willing to discuss raising the children as a stay at home wife. She would need to be intelligent enough to hold a conversation about any topic we had common knowledge on but not competitive.
> 
> For social standing, she would need to be friendly, warm and extroverted. Essentially, she would have to handle all the small talk and bullshitting associated with living in a neighborhood and raising children.
> 
> For longevity her expectations about our sexual and marital relationship would have be realistic or even low (considering I was gay and the thought of having sex with women was and is still off-putting).
> 
> So you’re an asshole.
> 
> I’m actually not conventionally attractive, but we can’t have genetic babies together so that doesn’t matter.
> 
> I actively do not believe in God but I practice Christian religious holidays anyway
> 
> I’m probably smarter than you but I’m far less committed to proving it. I have no life goals, I probably would raise the kids but you wouldn’t trust me and I once fought Ezio for sixteen hours about who actually should get the toy in the bottom of the cereal box.
> 
> I cannot stand to lose. I have trouble resisting a challenge
> 
> I can small talk anyone and handle a neighborhood but I’d probably get kicked out of the homeowners association for painting pink penises on the yard when someone pissed me off
> 
> And I am going to fuck the hell out of you right after I perform a couple of minor miracles
> 
> You really are not conventionally attractive. Your mouth is almost too big for your face.
> 
> All the better to suck your dick with, my dear
> 
> I think you’d look really attractive with eyeliner. Not like an obnoxious amount but it would bring out the unusual color of your eyes. Imagine you with your mouth full of dick, glaring at me with eyeliner.
> 
> So is the cross dressing thing a kink? Should I be stocking up on skirts?
> 
> I’m pretty sure that the picture you sent Kadar weakened his heterosexuality.
> 
> That one with the short skirt where you’re touching your thigh
> 
> So it’s a family thing
> 
> No. It’s a look at this aggressive toppy asshole wearing a pretty skirt looking like he’s waiting for someone to bend him over a table and he’d probably beg you for it while you fucked him hard from behind.
> 
> I am really tired of masturbating to your stupid texts
> 
> I’m really tired of masturbating to your stupid videos. 
> 
> How many more signatures do you need?
> 
> Well, the gossip sites have picked up the story. Ezio mentioned it on his twitter
> 
> so not many, I would assume
> 
> Good.
> 
> Going for a run

Altair heard from Lucy, not Desmond, but it was an invitation to the apartment so he took it. He let himself in and dropped London on the ground. She went immediate yapping through the house in search of another living thing, skirted around a corner before she ended up laid flat out on the floor and had to claw her way back to her feet. 

Desmond was lying in bed, looking freshly disgruntled that the puppy had found him down the hall and through the open door. He threw a pillow at her that missed (entirely) so Altair picked it up and dropped it back on the bed before he dropped down to lay at his side. The whole bed was probably contaminated with sex (if Lucy’s attitude toward sex was true to her appetite for it) but Altair was willing to make an exception. He lay on his back with his arms on his chest and turned his head to look at Desmond. 

“How do you know I’m not naked under this blanket?” Desmond asked. He was on his stomach with his face pushed against the pillow and his hands pushed up under it. “What can I do for you?” he asked before Altair could come up with an answer (most likely something about how he didn’t care about nudity). 

“I think that you couldn’t possibly have expected I wouldn’t come find you to see how you were after yesterday.” There was simply no way that he could have been prevented from doing it. 

Desmond groaned with his whole face pressed into the pillow and then rolled over onto his back with a huff. The blankets were twisted around his legs and he had to yank and pull at them to undo them. Then he shrugged. “I thought he was bigger. I remember him being a lot bigger.” Then he shrugged again and half-sighed. “He tried to tell me that you did something to him.”

That was worth a laugh. Altair turned his head to look at Desmond. “You didn’t believe him?”

“I believe that you would finish what Grandma started,” Desmond said. It was an ambiguous sort of thing to say. It went unexplained (half-understood) until Desmond shrugged again. “In any case, look at what you did to Leonardo. I mean, that guy just fucked someone you were in love with. Imagine what you’d do if you had the chance to take a swing at my d—William.”

“I don’t want to imagine it,” Altair said. Because he had imagined it, because it had gotten into his head and his arms and his fists. He knew what he’d do if he got his hands on William and it was why he _didn’t_. “How was Federico?”

“Fine. He was good. We’re having the wedding on the May ninth.” Desmond cleared his throat and hesitated before he said, “I don’t want a bachelor party but I do need a best man.” Then he just looked at Altair like he was bracing himself for some backlash to the comment. 

“Really?” Altair said. It wasn’t even that he didn’t expect it (at least a little, at least in hoping) but that he still hadn’t fully aligned himself with the notion of _man_ (or really earned the title of _best_ even when it came to Desmond who had a variety of less than stellar options). “Yes, I would be honored. I just figured you’d pick Ezio or someone.”

“I can’t stand next to _Ezio_ at my wedding,” Desmond said. “I love and trust Lucy but it’s _Ezio_ the only woman crazy enough in the whole world not to marry him is _Cristina_.”

Altair laughed and Desmond smiled at him. “So you need someone to stand there and look uglier than you and Federico was busy that day?”

Desmond laughed (loud-and-bright) before he shook his head. “Yes, yeah. Essentially.” They laughed again and lapsed into silence. It was another minute (maybe two) of half-hiccupped almost-laughs before Desmond sighed again. “But I am ok. I really am. Better than I thought I’d be.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to record myself reading a chapter of Sass. But I have no particular care about which chapter. So, anyone have a suggestion? [Please leave them here](http://bewareofchris.tumblr.com/post/128071607902/which-chapter-should-i-read)
> 
> Also they cannot be chapters with explicit sex because I die


	62. Chapter 62

> **Altair**
> 
> When, or if I guess, we get married are you going to spend six hours staring at rings weighing each one for pros and cons?
> 
> Yes. I like to make educated, sensible decisions about things that I will be socially required to wear for the rest of my life
> 
> Are you busy?
> 
> No?

Perhaps the strangest thing about Malik’s phone ringing suddenly in his hand was not that he wasn’t aware it was capable of doing such a thing but that it had completely skipped his mind altogether that Altair _was capable_ of doing such a thing. His name showing up on the screen while it vibrated in Malik’s hand brought an odd surge of terror into his chest (and then a sort of angry warmth). He was alone in the house, sitting on the couch, watching daytime TV in the loose pants he’d slept in, waiting for the time of day that he had to start being useful with his life again. And so there was nobody but Aquila (laying on magazines on the table in front of him) to watch Malik panic over a phone call. 

He spent a moment too long worrying about the scruff on his cheeks and the unwashed stink of his breath before he realized the phone would not telegram his appearance and then he hit the accept button on the phone and brought it up to his ear. “Hi.” It wasn’t meant to sound like a question but he was pretty sure that it sounded far less certain than he wanted.

“Are you sure?” Altair asked. His voice was a low drawl of noise through the phone like he was whispering it off to the side somewhere. There was a smile in his voice when he said, “what are you doing? You sound embarrassed.”

“I’m not embarrassed,” Malik retorted. The tone was snappish at best. The words were far too quick a denial to be considered true. And the pause of noise on the opposite end of the phone was too smug to ignore. “I just wasn’t expecting you to actually call.”

“I heard that calling is what phones were invented for.”

Malik shrugged even if he couldn’t be seen and got up off the couch to walk toward the stairs. Aquila jumped off the coffee table to only long enough to curl up in the warm space Malik abandoned. “Nobody calls anyone anymore.”

“The lady behind the counter is staring at me in a way that makes me think she has one of my pictures stapled to her pillow.” But directly on the heels of that stunning display of arrogance there was, “I asked if you were busy.”

“I wasn’t busy _for texting_.” He went into his room and pushed the door almost entirely closed before he went over to sit on his bed. The curious truth about listening to the huff of Altair’s amusement at this empty protest was that the noise was so instantly endearing that Malik couldn’t help but smile back at it. When he was through having a sudden painful twist of _yearning_ , he interrupted Altair’s attempt to say (‘well what were you doing’) to say, “you can watching porn and text. It’s more complicated with phone calls.”

“What?” Altair said. 

Malik smiled (and it wasn’t friendly at-all) before he laid back on his bed. The phone was a burden when it took up his only hand so he put it on speaker phone (since he was alone in the house) and set it on his chest. “Now I’m left with an inconvenient erection.” Which was not technically _entirely_ true. The sound of Altair’s exasperation underscored with a whine of lust (poor guy) was enough to make his dick perk up in interest. What was true was that his hand was creeping down to palm at his dick and he had every intention of making his small lie a full reality. 

“I know the feeling,” Altair muttered. He sounded like he was moving before the background clutter of noise grew louder and his voice was a polite interrupt, distant but still close to the phone, excusing himself. Malik busied himself with lazily stroking himself through his pants, marinated in the embarrassed apologies Altair was offering as a delightful tingle of mean-spirited pride settled nicely next to the arousal growing steadily more prominent. “As inconvenient erections go,” Altair said in a voice that was both irritated and intrigued, “I believe I have you beat.”

“I don’t like being spanked,” Malik retorted, “I don’t like being bit either. I don’t mind getting hickeys. I have been known to enjoy being manhandled when it fits the mood.” The last word was interrupted by the gust of his breath passing over his wet lips as he ran his thumb across the head of his dick through his pants. It was immediately answered with a guttural noise from Altair. “Did you tell me if they were picking an engagement ring or a wedding ring?”

“No I didn’t,” Altair said (tense, certainly). Then a car door opened and closed again. There was an odd blanket of silence in the background over the phone. Altair said, “what kind of manhandling?”

“The usual stuff. You show off how strong and masculine you are, we wrestle, whoever comes out on top gets to top.” And Altair cursed under his breath like a puppy whining after a treat. “I’m not always the most cooperative under those circumstances.”

“For a guy who doesn’t want people thinking he’s only a bottom, your line of fantasies seem to end with you getting fucked fairly often,” Altair said. It was a poor cover for the obvious embarrassment and lust that was making his attempts at casual conversation seem strained and thin. There was no sound filtering through the phone to indicate he was attempting to handle his own inconvenient erection. At some point, he had switched from English to Arabic and Malik had not exactly noticed when (to be fair, it could have been him that did it). 

“Just because I do not like the presumption does not mean I do not enjoy the act. The trouble with people assuming that I bottom exclusively is not only that they think I’m less of a man because of it but also because they think you’re more of one.” He worked the waistband of his pants down with squirming and leverage and lifted his head up to look at his own dick. “I mean that in more than a size of your penis way.”

“I don’t think that,” Altair said softly. “What are you doing now?”

“At this exact moment I am stroking my dick, thinking about how out of practice I am at taking normal sized dick and waiting for you to break down crying. How hard are you?”

Altair snorted. “The kind of hard where the seam of my pants is in danger of being torn open. I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” Malik said.

“I will if you don’t finish,” Altair retorted. “You haven’t told me how you’re going to fix the out of practice thing.”

Malik smiled at the phone. “For that,” he said (conversationally), “we will need to find the lube.”

\--

> FROM: Altair Ibn-La’Ahad [whydidsomeoneusemyname@gmail.com]  
>  TO: K [notyourbrother@gmail.com]
> 
> I probably have a helicopter but it’s most likely for men who would actually have a need for it. Getting a helicopter tour of NYC is not a difficult task though. Let me know when it would be best for you.
> 
> _K wrote_ :  
>  It means that my brother actually does know how manipulative I am. That’s surprising because usually he’s against manipulation so I figured that if he knew about me that he’d lecture me about it. I mean, it could be a reflection of you but even if he thinks you’ll just give up all your cash, I don’t. 
> 
> I still have my Christmas present from you. Anything I think of that I want, I can probably just get with that. Do you have a helicopter? I hear that helicopter tours of NYC are cool.
> 
> _Altair wrote_ :  
>  I missed your birthday and your brother wouldn’t give me your phone number because if he did you’d have all my inheritance in three days or less. I’m not sure if that’s a reflection of me or you but I’m curious for your insight. 
> 
> What do you want for your birthday?

“Waiting for Stephanie?” Jenna asked. She hadn’t sought him out much in the aftermath of his gentle rejection of her feelings. Rather than make things awkward, she had simply thrown all her attention and devotion into the protest. She’d lost a good portion of her supports after the school board meeting failed to produce any noticeable action. The ones that remained strong were identifiable by their T-shirts and sweats. Now she stood to the side, hands curled around her book bag straps with her head turned back toward the cafeteria doors. “I think I saw her in line.”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. He hadn’t been looking for Stephanie at all but sending his brother obnoxious text messages. Rather than get up and find an excuse to avoid being left alone with Jenna, he scooted over on the bench he’d been taking up space on. It was a unspoken invitation that Jenna accepted with a smile. She set her book bag on the ground in front of her feet. “Do you know what college you’re going to?”

Jenna shrugged. “I was thinking about going to the local community college. We don’t really have the money for a real university? I thought I could do nursing or something. That only takes a couple of years and it pays well.” She pushed her hands into her sweater pocket and hunched her shoulders forward as the March chill settled down around them. “What about you?”

“I don’t even know what I want to do. I don’t even know what my options are. Every time I try to figure it out, I feel like—” Kadar sat back and sighed. He looked sideways at Jenna and her perfectly-patient expression just waiting for him to finish whatever admission he had started. “I don’t feel qualified?” he said. Then he smiled. “I feel like I haven’t had enough time to figure it out? I know what I want to do. I want to help kids, I want to put a stop to bullies. But will I always want that?”

“I don’t even want to be a nurse now,” Jenna said. She shrugged her shoulders. The cold was making her cheeks look pinker as she looked out across the little parking lot. “The guidance counselor told me that out of the options of that career test I took, nursing was the one that would probably be my safest bet. So I’m taking extra science classes and planning on it.” She pressed her lips together and then turned her head to look at him. A helpless kind of smile crossed her face. “I don’t even like taking care of my own family. But it’s a job. A good job that I’m likely to succeed at. So it’s not always what we want, Kadar.”

Of course it wasn’t. If it was about what they wanted, Kadar wouldn’t be trying to shoehorn his head into the notion of going directly from high school to university because everyone from the teachers to his Mother to Malik had told him that ‘taking a year off’ was a stupid notion and that anyone that did it was likely to end up employed at a local gas station. Mother had been more adamant about it than Malik who had tried to predict his future driving a cab before laughing himself into a stupor. The asshole was a hypocrite since he took a year off to wallow in pity about his arm and his rich boyfriend. (Kadar was not gracious or understanding when he was being laughed at or he might have made more allowances for Malik’s fall into an unmotivated depression.)

“Stephanie got accepted at Hawaii,” Kadar said. “She just got the letter yesterday. She’s _so_ excited.”

Jenna nodded like she understood it _completely_ and pressed her palms against the metal bench they were sitting on. She leaned forward as she let out a sigh that turned to a ghost of breath in front of her mouth. Then she straightened again, snapped back into place with a fading edge of cruelty leeching away from her smile. There was sympathy (not pity, not pleased spite) in her eyes when she reached over and touched his shoulder. “That sucks,” is what she said.

Kadar nodded. “I’m happy for her.” It was a wonder how that felt more like giving up than it felt like anything. But the cafeteria door opened and Stephanie was leaning her head out. “Are you going to stay out there?” So he picked himself up (cold and no less lonesome than when he came out) and headed back toward the door.

\--

> ### March 5, 2009: Throwback Thursdays
> 
> Three years ago I met this prick:
> 
> [image: screen-cap of Altair’s tweet: Son-of-no-One: ’Longest night of my life. #too many dicks on the dance floor’ (35m ago)].
> 
> Two and a half years ago this asshole discovered what I thought of him:
> 
> [image of a much thinner, less defined Altair in his boxers, sitting in a chair in front of his computer motioning to the screen that showed Malik’s blog. His expression is an arrogant smile.]
> 
> Last year I fell in love with this:
> 
> [Video of Altair giving out free dancing lessons on a busy sidewalk.]
> 
> Yesterday, this happened:
> 
> [Image of Altair’s latest tweet that reads: “Guess who just got 2 million signatures? You, me and a romantic table for two, @Sass-Badger?” with an attached image of the screen shot for the number of signatures on the petition.]
> 
> The Sett will be on a brief hiatus. I imagine you know why.
> 
> **Tagged** : _i: Altair is embarrassing. Congratulations Saltair shippers, I suppose you won this round._  
> 

“So, what kind of stupid coming out video did you have in mind,” Altair was saying through the phone. It was the kind of thing that someone said when they hadn’t gotten out of bed all day. (Malik knew that Altair hadn’t gotten out of bed all day because he’d called him at eight-forty-five that morning with a bored sigh of ‘so I don’t feel like doing anything today, keep me company’ and they had spent the whole day watching bullshit TV, comparing commercials and arguing about the best way to make homemade hummus. The heathen on the opposite end of the line proclaimed that he didn’t even like hummus that much but still tried to argue his point. “Also is that your brother or your Mom in the background?”

Malik looked over toward his Mother. She was eying the hummus he’d made that afternoon with a curious tilt of her head but no comment. “My Mother,” Malik said. He had to turn off the speakerphone when Mother came home because unlike Kadar who immediately went to hide in his room, she had lingered in the kitchen.

“Who is asking?” Mother asked. She tasted the hummus with a spoon and, after a moment of pushing the taste around her mouth, smiled approvingly at it. Then she set the spoon into the sink.

“Altair,” Malik said.

Mother took note of the charger cord attached to his phone and the sorry state of his pajamas that he had never changed out of and then simply sighed. Then she patted him on the shoulder and went back out of the room. 

“What just happened? You stopped breathing.” Altair was _amused_ by him. 

“I’m still in my pajamas. What kind of video did you want to do? I thought my part in the coming out video would be standing there while you did the thing where you overact and make a fool of yourself.” Malik hadn’t actually put any thought (at all) into how they would introduce themselves to the rest of the world. There was a certain inevitability to it now. The petition had reached its full potential (and more).

“I heard from the guy that handles my PR that several people have asked to be there for the big reveal, or they want interviews? They don’t even know that you’re a man yet so I can’t imagine how much worse it will get after that comes out.” Altair sighed. “So you just want to stand there?”

“I didn’t say that’s what I wanted. I said that’s what I expected. Maybe we should do more than one. Then we can have our fans vote on their favorite.” He pulled the phone away from his face with a hasty, “wait a minute,” before he checked the battery and found that it was full enough now to survive the trip back up to his bedroom. “Ok.” Then he unplugged the cord and headed for his room.

“Well if we’re doing more than one, it’s absolutely imperative that we make a coming out of the closet joke.” 

Malik only sighed as he went into his room and laid across his bed (again). He had to put the phone on speaker phone so he could roll over on his belly and plug the cord into the outlet by the headboard. “Of course we must,” he said. “I might have to hang up soon. We eat dinner together when we’re all here. My brother hasn’t come out of his room all afternoon so I should probably go see what’s going on with him.”

“Am I coming to you to film these or are you coming to me?” Altair asked. 

That was a conundrum because Malik had already left once and there was only so much temptation that his whole body could stand. There was nobody in New York that was going to object to him being alone with Altair and therefore nothing to stop him. Kadar couldn’t miss anymore school (so their Mother said) so he couldn’t afford to simply run off to New York for however long it took to film the videos. 

“I was always confused when you just shut down and ignored me instead of answering something. It’s nice to see that you do it in conversation as well as in text and e-mail. It’s oddly refreshing.” Altair was _amused_ at him again.

“Shut up,” Malik said. “Film one in each place. I’ll come there and then you can come back here with me?”

“Sounds fair.” Then he sighed. “You should go, talk to your family. I have to stop ignoring these texts that Lucy’s sending me. She’s gone from annoyance to threatening my testicles.” 

Malik laughed. “Yeah, so let me know when you want me to come there for the video and where to meet you.”

“I will,” Altair said. “Any day not good for you?”

Malik shrugged. “I don’t have a job. Any day is good.” And then he looked out toward his door with a desperate sense of self-consciousness. There was nobody in the hall to hear him and no reason to even be embarrassed but he still felt uncomfortable. “Talk to you later?” is what he said but it wasn’t what he meant to say.

“Yeah,” Altair assured him. “Talk to you later.” 

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> May I please come and help plan your wedding?
> 
> Why would you want to?
> 
> Practice.
> 
> This has nothing to do with Altair and Sass?
> 
> I will not deny that I am very curious but I do want to assist with your wedding.
> 
> I would have asked Lucy but I do not have her number.
> 
> I’ll ask Lucy

“No!” Lucy shouted from the corner of the couch. She was wearing fleece pajama pants and one of his old shirts that was too big for her thin shoulders. The beer she’d been drinking was laying empty in her lap but she grabbed it when the sudden jerk of her leaning forward and pointing at Altair upset its balance. “What we should do is, you can be in your stupid closet and then someone can be yell at you about how you need to get out of the closet because Sass is waiting and then the camera just like follows you out to the living room!”

Altair was laughing about that idea and the one before. The whole parade of poorly-plotted videos that had taken up the time after dinner. The laughter had built on itself until it was breaking against the walls like heavy waves. Even London who was almost never willingly separated from Altair had gone to seek refuge in her dark little cave in the kitchen. Altair tried to say something but he was laughing too hard to be understood.

“When is he supposed to be here?” Desmond asked. He was drinking tea (not beer) while he listened to the two idiots trying to outdo one another. (His personal favorite was the idea that involved Altair living in his closet and Malik having to try to drag him out of the closet.) 

Altair let out a long sigh. He sagged back into the chair he was sitting on. “Next week, I think. Probably Wednesday.” He leaned forward to put his empty bottle on the table. “Then I have to go meet his Mother.”

Lucy made an ominous sound low in her throat. Desmond looked over at her but before he could ask what she meant by that, she was already leaning back against the arm of the couch looking regal and quietly judgmental. “I’m just saying that I don’t even have a son but if some asshole twenty year old asshole with a ten inch dick got my fictional baby son drunk and then had sex with him and abandoned him at a hotel the next morning, there would never be forgiveness.”

“I don’t think Malik’s mother knows how big his dick is,” Desmond said quietly.

“Yes that was clearly the important part.” Lucy rolled her eyes and then straightened her leg out to kick him in the thigh. “Not the part where some asshole got my kid drunk and left him.”

“I did not get him drunk,” Altair said. He was sitting forward on the chair, sighing about his inevitable failure to impress Malik’s mom. “Someone spiked the punch. I didn’t know he was seventeen either. He didn’t act like a teenager.”

“What was it you said on twitter that night? Something about too many dicks on the dance floor?” Desmond asked. He motioned at Altair, the tattoos on his wrist and his hand. “Aren’t you basically walking sin? I mean, as for as Islam is concerned?”

“That would be nitpicking,” Altair said. “Malik’s gay. If she was that interested in her religion, she wouldn’t have accepted him once he started sleeping with other guys. Especially if he was the one getting fucked. Besides, even if she is Muslim, he’s not. And I’m not. So I don’t have to follow the same rules.” 

“Hey,” Lucy said very suddenly, like she only just thought of something, “remember last year when you beat the hell out of Leonardo?”

Altair only sighed and flopped back into the chair. “You don’t have to tell me how fucked I am. As I understand it, the Mother really likes Leonardo. You know, because he saved her son’s life and all.” He frowned at that like it was a foul taste in his mouth.

“You’ll be fine. You created this disadvantage because you were a childish asshole but you’re not as much of one now as you were and Malik is important to you. Don’t be a dick and let her see that you genuinely care about her son. You’ll be fine,” Desmond said. It was the only logical advice and yet both Lucy and Altair were staring at him like he was insane. 

“You stole her son’s virginity and beat up the man that saved his life. You can grovel the rest of your life, you’re fucked.” Lucy nodded to emphasis her point before she got to her feet. “Want another beer?”

Altair nodded. When Lucy was gone to fetch another round, Desmond looked over his shoulder to be sure she was out of hearing range before he said, “Claudia wants to come meet Malik. Do you care?”

Altair just shrugged. “They’re going to find out eventually.”

“You should introduce him to Federico first.” If only because Federico was the only one of the cousins that had any noticeable notion that Malik wasn’t a man and Desmond wanted to be there when they met. It seemed like the sort of thing that was a once in a lifetime opportunity. “He’s still in town, I think. Mama Maria was spending a few weeks with Mrs. Finch.”

“We could invite him over for dinner?” Altair said. “I’ll ask Malik.” It was a good enough excuse for him to drag his phone out of his pocket and there was a nearly one hundred percent chance that once he started sending messages to Malik he would drop entirely out of the conversation. 

Lucy brought back the beers and sighed when she found Altair texting again. Rather than try to give him the beer, she just set it on the table, then sat next to Desmond. They both watched Altair smiling at his stupid phone before Lucy nudged him with her elbow. “I think we lost him.” She motioned toward their bedroom with her head. Then she got up and Desmond followed after her. 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Are you getting up today?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Sure?
> 
> I need to get my hair cut so yes
> 
> Can I go with you?
> 
> Sure

They didn’t make it to getting Malik’s haircut. Rather than successfully travelling, they found themselves sitting in Danny’s Deli being served warm sandwiches and searing hot fries. Kadar was pouting at the long pickle on his plate the way he’d been pouting through the bus ride, the way he’d pouted through walking to the bus stop. He’d pouted at the menu.

He’d pouted through deflecting Malik’s small-talk and pouted through asking him about his plans for the next week. 

“So, you’re going to make videos to debut yourself to the world. Altair’s going to act like an idiot and you’re going to play the straight man?” Kadar repeated. He picked up the deli pickle and leaned forward to drop it on Malik’s plate (the same way he had since they were children). “Are you sure you can play a straight man?” It was a poor attempt at a joke and even Kadar seemed to be aware of it as he frowned at the words as soon as they were said.

The background clatter of the diner was a poor setting for cornering his brother about whatever was perpetuating this dour mood. There were too many conversations overlapping to pretend there was any sense of privacy (except the kind of privacy that came from being one voice in many). “Funny,” Malik said. “What’s wrong?”

Kadar pushed his French fries around his plate for a minute. “You know how you quit life last year? We were all fighting with you for months about how you had to eat and you had to go outside and you had to do your stretches. Mom found out you used to starve yourself and Altair was an asshole so you just laid in your bed for hours? Mom found you a job and watched you eat at least twice a day but she didn’t nag you about going back to school because we were just happy that you’d managed to get up and interact with humans for several hours a day?” Before Malik could interrupt, Kadar added, “you had your arm amputated so I get it. That just—it makes sense. I’m not saying that it doesn’t. Just, _everyone_ was so upset all the time but they kept pushing at you, like if we could just get you to be real again we’d all be fine. Look at the shit that happened this past year? And I don’t know, I feel like it’s over now. You finally have Altair, you’re a _person_ , Mom’s dating some guy, Stephanie’s going to Hawaii and what am I doing? I’m—I don’t even know what I want to do. I’m _tired_ , Malik. I feel _exhausted_ all the time.”

That was very much like getting kicked in the gut. Malik set down the fry that he’d been holding pinched between his fingers since Kadar started talking and wiped the salt off on the paper napkin to the side. “I’m sorry,” he said. 

Kadar was staring at the plate with a twist of his lips like a grimace at the words. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m sorry about Stephanie.”

Kadar shrugged. “I really like her, you know? She’s so great. I mean, she’s everything that I imagined I would want in a girlfriend because she’s so sweet and she’s smart and she’s got ambition to get what she wants. But she doesn’t care about the same things that I do and I thought, that’s not such a big deal because we don’t have to be the same to get along. Now, she’s leaving to go to Hawaii, probably, and I can’t stop thinking about how I should have known this wasn’t going to work out. I’m breaking up with her every day in my head. I don’t even want to see her.”

“Have you told her?” Malik asked. 

“No.”

Malik sighed. “You should be honest with her. Tell her that you’re happy for her but—be honest. Tell her that you’re having a hard time because she’s going to be going somewhere that you aren’t. You don’t have to make a choice about whether or not you’re going to break up with her today because you have the whole summer.” He was aware (even while he was saying it) that he was the last person in the world that should be handing out relationship advice. 

“I am going to break up with her,” Kadar said. He looked up when he said it. They were the only words that were made of something _solid_ and _real_ in the whole deluge of confessed unhappiness. “I’m not having a long-distance relationship. I’m not going to spend all my time missing someone I can’t have. I don’t love her in a way that can withstand that.” Then he looked like the words hurt him to say. “Is that awful?”

“Is it honest?” Malik asked. “It’s only awful if it’s not true.”

Kadar nodded. “It’s true.” Then he sat up and picked up the ketchup off the side of the table. “So why are you getting your haircut? It looks good like this. You always get it too short. You don’t have the right head shape for very short hair. This is long enough it covers up the awkward bump thing you have on the back of your head.”

“Thanks,” Malik said. “I was trying to look presentable.”

“You were trying to look like what Mom wants you to.” He motioned at his own head. “Embrace the rebellion, Malik. Let your hair be free.” His own hair was a curled mess around his face, growing ever thicker the long her managed to escape his Mother’s tyranny over their hair. Kadar was eighteen now and too old to be told how to groom himself. Mother’s sole protest now would be the quietly offered advice that he may look more respectable if his hair wasn’t so thick and unruly. “So are you going to sleep with him this time?”

Yes. Malik was going to jump Altair like his life depended on it because eight hour long phone calls, all-night-texting and non-stop sexual frustration born of knowing he _could have_ and _didn’t_ was destroying his life. “No,” he said. “For an entirely arbitrary reasons, I would like to wait, _at least_ until after he meets Mother.”

Kadar did not look impressed. “Are you afraid of having sex with him?”

“Do you have a personal interest in me having sex with him?”

“Now that I’ve had sex, I’m just trying to figure out why you’re delaying the inevitable after you’ve been stringing the guy along for the past three years. I don’t think that putting an end to your joint misery is going to somehow undermine your relationship.” Kadar was eating (which was a great improvement from the pouting) taking small bites and speaking around the half-chewed French fries (slathered in ketchup). “Are you afraid it will undermine your relationship?”

“There’s always the chance he’s really bad at sex,” Malik said. It wasn’t something that he really put a lot of thought into (what with having published his sexual resume once a week for over a year at this point) but it was still a technical possibility. While he wasn’t _afraid_ (per se) he was wary enough of the notion that he didn’t want to rush into anything. 

Kadar considered that statement for five seconds before he licked the ketchup off the corners of his mouth and said, “why don’t you just _show him_ once? He’s a genius right? I bet he’ll figure it out and if that doesn’t work out you can hire Leonardo to give him lessons.” Kadar was _smirking_ when he said it. Clearly cheered by offering bullshit advice.

“Thanks,” Malik assured him.

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> Are you still in town?
> 
> I am until Friday.
> 
> Want to come have dinner at Desmond’s on Wednesday?
> 
> Should I come alone? Or is this invitation extended to my wife and child as well?
> 
> Of course it is.
> 
> Yes, we will come.

Altair invited Federico over on Monday and spent the day clearing out the excess of unwanted things from his closet (since it seemed as if it were going to feature prominently in his coming out video). By the time he’d finished in the early afternoon, he had several boxes of unwanted clothes and shoes and a variety of other useless things that needed to be gotten rid of. Malik was busy ‘hanging out with his brother’ so Altair took a bath and contemplated his life and went to bed early.

On Tuesday, he met Lucy at the grocery store to argue with her about what they were going to cook for their assembled guests. They were in the produce section arguing about how to make sauce. “Shut up!” Lucy shouted at him just before she slapped a hand over his mouth. Her hands were always harder when they hit him than anyone else’s (except when they were trying to break his face). She looked him dead in the eye and she said, “we’re making what _I_ want to make because _I’m_ the one making it. Federico can go suck a dick if he doesn’t like it.” Then she smiled at him and nodded her head until he nodded along. 

On Wednesday, he woke up too damn early to texts from Malik about how unhappy he was to have to be awake to catch a train. They passed vague sexual innuendo back and forth before Altair picked himself up to go to the gym. He made it back with plenty of time to take a shower and stand in his closet naked, staring at his clothes, trying to figure out what look made him the most attractive. 

Desmond let himself in and shouted at him until Altair answered. Then he came around the corner in his bedroom and heaved a sigh in the doorway of the closet. He shook his head before he turned around so he was facing outward away from looking Altair’s naked body. “I thought these videos were supposed to be a joke, not a factual representation of true events.”

“Technically,” Altair said. “They are factual.” He gave in and picked a pair of jeans (if only because jeans seemed to work for him) and found a T-shirt that did not have anything that could be considered socially unacceptable on it. “Did you bring your camera?”

“Of course I did. Lucy said she’ll be here as soon as she can, but she got stuck at work because someone called out sick.” Desmond rolled his eyes at that. “I told her to quit and she lectured me for three hours about how financially irresponsible it is. Her boss won’t promote her and she won’t give her the time off for the wedding and honeymoon. We don’t even spend her paycheck anymore. It just sits there in the bank.”

“I’m trying to understand where you’re coming from but you have a job as a bartender.”

“Part time,” Desmond corrected, “and I get paid more than her.” He followed Altair out to the kitchen and growled back at London when she came out of her cave under the table to yap at him. She started vibrating with growls to answer his. It was a constant argument about whether or not it counted as tormenting the dog. Desmond smirked at him for a brief moment of victory before he bent down and scooped London up to let her lick his chin while he petted her. “Are you taking her with you when you go try to impress Malik’s Mom?”

That was a variable that he hadn’t considered yet (the way he also hadn’t figured out what or how many clothes to take or where he would be staying while he was in town). Instead of trying to come up with a bullshit answer he shrugged. “Will you watch her if I don’t?”

“No,” Desmond said to London. She slapped him in the face with one of her fluffy paws. He shook his head at her and she tried to push both her feet against his mouth before he bent over to put her back on the floor. She attacked the cuffs of his pants. “You know that I will. But under extreme protest. When is Malik supposed to be here?”

“Uh, next half an hour?” He patted his pockets and discovered that he’d left his phone back in the closet. “Going to find my phone. That’ll give you time to pet the dog more and still pretend like you hate her when I get back.”

“I do hate her,” Desmond said. That must have been why he was picking London up again before Altair even made it out of the room.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> I’m here
> 
> I’ll send Desmond down to get you.
> 
> Charming.
> 
> I’d come down there but the guy at the desk frowns at making out in the lobby
> 
> You have high hopes considering
> 
> How does Desmond look so much like you?
> 
> We have the same Grandfather. That helps.

Desmond really did look entirely too much like Altair. In pictures, the differences in their faces was more significant than it was in person. Whether Altair had subconsciously picked up on his favorite cousin’s expressions (or the other way around) the two of them had enough of each other’s face to force someone to look twice to be sure. Their smiles were different enough: because Desmond was quietly unobtrusive and Altair’s was offensively arrogant. 

“Welcome back,” Desmond said. Then he motioned Malik to the elevator and hovered between offering to carry his bag and making no note of it. In the end, he must have decided it was wisest to leave it be. Once they were in the elevator, Desmond stood against the back wall. “How was the trip?”

“Fine,” Malik said. Long, boring, uncomfortable and finally cold. But it was the same as any unfortunate trip that he’d ever had to take (less awful than the bus trips that took him to college, more awful than the last time he’d come to New York). “How are you?”

“Good.” Then Desmond nodded his head and reached up to rub at the back of his head. Whatever internal war he was waging about whether or not he was going to say something had only just resolved itself when the elevator reached the top floor. They stepped out onto the polite space in front of Altair’s door as Desmond said, “I’m just going to say this because I think it’s fair that you really have the chance to understand what you’re about to get yourself into.”

Malik shifted his bag on his shoulders and looked at Desmond fully (the way he was raised to devote his attention to whoever was speaking). He was cold, hungry and surly at being forced out of his bed too early (and at having been kept up half the night). His hair felt too long (and he didn’t like it) and he was being held back at the entrance of getting his hands on the asshole who had kept him up the night by sending dirty texts and pictures. 

“Everyone in our family is an asshole. We all know that and we don’t take it too personally. I don’t know what— _bothers_ you, what kind of joke is offensive or implication is unacceptable but I can _promise_ you that you will hear them. Especially from the brothers, _especially_ if they’re together.” Then he paused in a way that didn’t seem to mark the end of the caution.

Malik said, “are you telling me so I know and ignore it, because you want to give me the chance to prepare a rebuttal or because Altair is going to fight one of them if he thinks they upset me?”

Desmond shrugged. “All of that, actually. The last one is a worst case scenario.” He looked toward the door and then back at him. “Be careful with the idiot, please?” Malik wasn’t even given time to offer a response (he wasn’t sure what the response would be if he did) before Desmond was opening the door and walking in. London ran directly for Desmond’s feet, barking the whole way and jumping excitedly around his shoes. 

“Finally,” Altair said. He was standing in a way that seemed to indicate he’d been pacing in front of the door. His expression was a confusing mix-up of joy and embarrassment at having been caught. The shirt he was wearing was just tight enough to stretch across his chest and arms in an inviting way. Malik would have pointed out how stupid he looked standing there with one of his hands lifted away from his side like he wanted to grab Malik and his mouth half stretched into a smile but then he was frozen in place just inside the door, staring at the idiot’s stupidly attractive body (and face). 

“I can go.” Desmond was perfectly understanding to the side with London cradled against his chest. “Until Lucy gets off work?”

“Sure,” Altair was saying in time with Malik trying to convey how much sex was _not_ going to happen regardless of how alone they were. Desmond didn’t stay a moment later, but took London with him when he went. The silence that followed the closing of the door seemed immense. Altair shrugged with his hands sliding into his pockets. “He’s going to be here all day once Lucy gets off.”

“What are we going to do without him?” Malik stepped out of his shoes by the door and shrugged the bag off his left shoulder before swinging it around to hang off his right hand. It wasn’t heavy (mostly just his clothes for overnight) but it was still an awkward weight. 

“We haven’t finished watching season four yet?” Altair took the bag from him and dropped it on a chair. Then he turned around to take Malik’s coat when he got it off and hung it in the closet by the door. When all the niceties were done, he was left standing there with his hands in his pockets like he needed the physical reminder not to touch. “I don’t remember what episode we were on. Do you?”

“Five?” Malik said. He followed Altair over to where the remotes were sitting on the table by the couch and even stood next to him while they argued about whether they had finished the fifth episode. “If we hadn’t finished it, the TV would say ‘resume’ and it doesn’t.”

“I didn’t watch it on the TV. We didn’t finish it because you fell asleep in the middle of it.”

“I did not,” Malik said. 

“Yes, you did.” Altair had the remote in one hand and his whole body tilted toward Malik’s. The condescension on his face was infuriating enough to want to slap him. The very _tone_ of his voice conveyed that could never be convinced to believe Malik regardless of the proof he provided. “I stopped watching it because you stopped replying.”

“You were talking about the dead guy’s dirty kitchen! For ten straight minutes,” Malik said. “Nobody cares if he has leftover dishes in the sink! That wasn’t the point of the episode and there was no reason to keep responding to you.”

“You fell asleep.” Altair’s eyebrows were inching up toward his hairline to convey his disbelief. “Tell me how it ends. If you didn’t fall asleep, how does it end?” The problem wasn’t that Malik didn’t have the answer because the whole stupid episode ended with them finding the last suspect already dead in an oil drum. Saying as much wouldn’t prove to Altair that he hadn’t been asleep (which he hadn’t) when the smug asshole was so sure he was right. 

“Think about what you’re doing right now,” Malik countered. “This thing,” he motioned at Altair’s whole body, “puffing out your chest and,” he motioned at his face, “this smirk and,” he motioned sideways to the TV, “this stupid argument about this stupid TV show. Do you really think that it’s _that_ important you bully your way into being right? Do you _really_ think that’s the best use for our time?”

“I really think you fell asleep.” Altair’s smirk drifted back into a smile that was far less offensive. It settled like the sudden silence as his whole body seemed to get heavier and his eyes focused on Malik standing two foot in front of him. The pretense of the TV show was still hanging in place but Altair’s breathing had shifted from _impulse to win_ to that slow-drag that preceded their joint descent into lustful stupidity. “We have to film this thing today.”

“That’s why I’m here.” 

Altair nodded. “Is that what you want to wear?” He motioned at Malik’s shirt with his free hand.

Malik looked down at it. He hadn’t put a great deal of thought into what he wanted to wear to present himself to the world. All of his wardrobe was essentially the same thing on repeat in a variety of suitable colors. He was shrugging in time with Altair giving up on restraint. Altair’s hands were sliding around his face and Malik pressed his hand against Altair’s chest as their mouths knocked together. It was a desperate-hurried-kiss devoid of any finesse. The echo of their too-long phone calls was knocking around in his body. He tightened his fingers in against Altair’s chest as he licked back against the tongue that was pressing into his mouth. 

One of the hands that had been on his face dropped to grab his ass. Malik tipped his head back to protest the forwardness of the act (if only just to torment Altair more) and Altair’s other hand dropped to grab his ass too. The perfectly smug smile stretching across his face was far-too-pleased with itself. 

“Are you finished?”

Altair tightened his hands, dug his fingers in just hard enough that it almost hurt and pulled Malik up off his feet. He had to put his arm around Altair’s shoulder to keep from falling backward. “I heard you liked being manhandled, I just wanted to try it out.”

“I also said _when the mood was right_.” He could have pulled his legs up too but that would have been cooperating. Being held up gave him a height advantage that he didn’t have with his feet flat on the floor. He kissed Altair with his thumb pressed against the underside of his jaw and his fingers spread out across his rough cheek. The kiss was brief (and _wonderful_ ) before Malik pulled back to duck his head and nip at the hard edge of Altair’s jaw. He nipped at his neck as the hands on his ass shifted. He was set back on his feet with one hand still squeezing his ass and the other coming up to comb through his hair. 

Altair’s breathing was heavy, he tipped his head and Malik sucked at his neck where the drag of his teeth had made Altair shiver. Oh-and-the-sounds he made with his hips pushed forward against Malik and his head tipped back. It was a _delightful_ noise, all damp and _needy_ , stripped of the arrogant assumption of power. “Hey,” Altair said. He tipped his head down again, pushed his cheek against Malik’s and then they were kissing again, falling into the ease of physical contact with easy zeal.

“We aren’t having sex,” Malik said. It was an important thing to mention because his whole body was pressed against Altair’s and there were no good intentions that seemed more important than tearing this man’s clothes off and scrawling his name across every inch of his perfect fucking skin. He looked down from the aggravated lust on Altair’s face to the blushing hickey on his neck and smiled at it. 

“Those reviews at your college did not say anything about your penchant for torture,” Altair said.

“What?” Malik asked. He took a step backward and Altair’s flushed face paled a bit as he cleared his throat. “How did you find that website? I thought it was taken down. _Why_ would you—did you read the reviews?” The hypocrisy of the situation was not lost on him. He had made a living off publishing Altair’s semi-embarrassing sexual escapades (by far the most popular feature of the week until Kadar overhauled the website to include picture days). The difference between Sexy Saturdays and _those reviews_ was that Altair had agreed to have his private life thrown out as internet fodder. 

“Yes. I read them. I found it because I looked you up. I was fucking pissed off that you were leading me on for years, letting me think that you were a woman.” The edge of anger in his voice was as hard as the momentary blankness of his stare when he said, “I thought they were fair when I read them. I especially liked the one where you would rather fuck dogs.” He shrugged, “when I got over it, I got the website taken down. It didn’t seem like something you would have liked.”

“You read all of them?” The things those stupid boys at college had written about him, the dismissive way they’d laid out his every proficiency and deficiency left a sour, hateful taste in his mouth. Whatever careless lust he’d felt before was crushed under the unhappy weight of that admission. “Anything else you looked up about me that I should know about?” 

“Mal—”

“Don’t say my name like that. You don’t have to tell me that I don’t actually have a leg to stand on here because my brother has already done that. I don’t care if it’s hypocritical.” He dropped his arm to the side when he realized he was gesturing to the side (as he usually did) and waited for Altair to stop looking steadily more disappointed in him. 

The sigh was more insulting than the knowledge that Altair had read those stupid comments. Altair ran his tongue across his lips before he said, “I don’t know. I read everything I could find about you. There was some article in a newspaper when you graduated. There were the reviews, considering how many people are obsessed with you on the internet, there is basically nothing about you posted online.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Malik added. Then he let out a breath through his nose. “I’m sure as soon as we put these videos up, everyone will have something to say about me. Fuck.” He sat on the couch with more violence than was entirely necessary. “Can’t wait for that guy I fucked in his car to show up and talk about how much I like public sex.”

Altair wrinkled his nose up at the mention of ‘car’ in a way that was so automatic it was almost ridiculous. He sat next to Malik but not close enough to crowd into his space. “That’s part of this,” he said. “People always have something to say. You have to learn not to go looking for it. When you can’t avoid it, remember that all the people that think they know you, _don’t_.” It sounded too simple when put that way. Altair smiled at him and knocked his elbow into Malik’s. “Has your Mom read your blog?”

“Yes.”

“Right, so you just have to worry about the faceless internet and whatever they might come up with. I have to go meet your Mom when she knows every stupid thing I’ve done for the past three years.” Altair made it sound like the two ideas were so even, as if meeting one singular woman was more terrifying than the sum of the entire world and the secrets that he’d left behind when he walked away from guys he never intended to go back to. “Lucy says that if you were her child, she’d never forgive me.” Then, as if the ideas were connected, Altair followed it up with, “does your Mom know how big my dick is?”

Malik snorted. “Why would _my Mom_ know how big your—what?” 

“Lucy said that she wouldn’t forgive me for getting you drunk and stealing your virginity with my ten inch dick.” Altair shrugged and then sighed. “Want to watch the show until they get here? Do we need to talk about this more?”

“Your dick or the fact that you read those reviews about m—for that matter,” Malik said. He turned sideways on the couch so one of his legs was hanging off the side and the other was bent in front of him. “We need to set ground rules. No posting anything if we’re fighting, no posting crap when we’re angry—you read _those reviews_ and you _knew I was a man_ and you _knew_ that I’d struggled with accepting myself and you _still_ ate pizza with your obnoxious face and asked me _how many people_ I’d fucked.”

“I was angry,” Altair said. “I wanted to hurt you. You _lied_ to me and you can tell me that you just didn’t correct my assumption but at some point it stopped being letting me embarrass myself with the wrong pronouns and assumptions and became a willful perpetuation of the lie. Imagine how I felt when I found out you were a man after you attacked me about being homophobic and made me wear skirts for a week. Explain to me how I was supposed to know that you weren’t just _trying_ to _humiliate_ me. I thought you deserved it.” 

That was quite a bit like being punched in the gut _again_. Malik bit his lip rather than blurt out a rebuttal. The words settled over the old hurts and when they were still (and ready to be dealt with properly) Malik said, “that wasn’t why I did it. I asked you to wear skirts because you were misogynistic. I attacked you about being a homophobic asshole because I was in love with you and I knew you couldn’t accept me.”

“I attacked you because I was in love with you and I felt betrayed.” 

“I’m sorry.” Devoid of all attempts to defend himself (and he had plenty of defenses), the simple truth was that the sum of his actions had hurt Altair. Nothing good would come of trying to deny that. So he did not. “I should have told you. I was selfish to keep it a secret for so long. I value honesty and trust and I did not show you either.”

Altair looked vaguely embarrassed. He nodded (rather than accept the apology) and then sighed. “I’m sorry for attacking you, _repeatedly_. I’m sorry for what happened after prom. I’m sorry I ran out on you and every stupid thing I said afterward. It wasn’t fair, it wasn’t you I was angry at. I think I’ve figured that out now.”

Malik nodded. “Thanks.” He shrugged. 

Any further attempts to hold a conversation were interrupted by the door opening. London’s happy barking preceded Lucy and Desmond walking in looking like they’d only made it halfway through a whole argument. 

\--

> [Video starts out facing a closed, plain white closet door. Lucy impatiently walks into the shot and starts knocking on the door aggressively. // Video transitions to the interior of the closet where Altair tucked into one of the divided sections of the closet. He is looking at his phone.]
> 
> Lucy: [through the door] It’s time to leave the closet, Altair.
> 
> Altair: I’m not ready!
> 
> [Transitions to outside the door again. Lucy is staring at the door angrily.  
>  Lucy: Come out of the closet, Altair!
> 
> Altair: [through door] No!
> 
> Lucy: Sass is _almost here_ , get out of this closet immediately!
> 
> Altair: [through door] No!
> 
> Lucy: [Looks directly at camera in a manner that conveys her disbelief. Distantly a doorbell is heard.] That is probably Sass right now! Are you going to come out of the closet or do I have to go tell them that you’re not interested?
> 
> [Inside the closet, Altair looks at his phone that displays a message from Sass that says: _I’m here, were you going to answer the door_. He scrambled to his feet and goes over to yank the closet door open. Lucy claps him on the back and they head out to the front room.]
> 
> Lucy: Fix your shirt, I’ll get the door. [Lucy opens the door and Malik is standing there looking vaguely embarrassed to be featured in this video.] Sass?
> 
> Malik: Uh yes. But my name is Malik.

Lucy had only finished reiterating, “ok so far it looks good but if you two don’t make out on camera, the internet will never forgive you. They wrote _books_ in celebration of your love. The least you can do is grope one another for them,” when Federico arrived. The whole conversation (and the editing of the video they’d spent half the afternoon recording) was brought to a quick standstill. 

Desmond was just as happy to have an excuse to stop picking apart the same ten minute sections of video again and again for the best version of each ‘scene’. While he had been recruited for video-editing (many years ago now) and while he knew how to do it and would do it, he actually didn’t even enjoy it. “I’ll get it,” he said. There was no protest from Altair or Malik who were sitting on opposite sides of the dinner table glaring at the scrabble board (long after Lucy had given up the pretense of trying to play with them) and Lucy was in too good a spot for this reveal to give up her spot.

Cristina and Vincenzio were delighted to be invited (so they said) and Vincenzio ran immediately into the apartment toward the smell of food radiating from the kitchen. “Yeah,” Desmond said to Cristina who asked where she should put the wine that she’d brought. “Lucy’s in the kitchen.”

Then it was Federico, standing noticeably still in the doorway with his hands helpfully in his pockets. (It was a habit that Desmond only noticed in the aftermath of the war they’d waged against him. Federico tucked his hands away whenever he was alone with Desmond.) “What’s going on? The baby doesn’t invite _me_ to dinner.”

Desmond shrugged. “It’s nothing bad,” he said when Federico refused to move. “We just thought you’d like to see this first is all. Come on.” Then he motioned Federico inside and closed the door behind him. He was two-steps behind Federico the entire way to the kitchen. 

Cristina had taken up a clever pace behind Malik that gave her the benefit of seeing Federico’s face. Her cheeks were pink with the same excitement that colored Lucy’s face. Altair had turned his head to look at the doorway so he could see the exact expression on Federico’s face when he stopped short. Absent any sort of context, this sudden interruption of their life by a one armed man wouldn’t even be worthy of note. The only clue that Federico needed to figure out who he was looking at was the absolute silence that waited for him to speak. 

Desmond stepped past him so he could see the dawning smile on Federico’s face and he was shaking his head. “Ha,” he said when the grin stretched his face out of shape. “Ezio owes me. I _told_ him!” 

“How much?” Desmond asked.

“Five hundred,” Federico said. He shrugged it off like it was nothing and then looked at Altair with the same pointed expression of _anticipation_ that Mother Maria leveled at boys who didn’t follow through with their manners.

“Oh,” Altair said after a minute. “Federico this is Malik, my boyfriend. Malik, this is Federico, my cousin.” He even motioned back and forth between them. “Try to be nice.”

Federico held out his hand toward Malik and Malik shook his hand without getting up. They regarded one another silently before Federico dropped into the seat next to Altair. “Thank God I got married,” he said. Cristina walked over to take a place on the table on Malik’s side. She asked _why is that_ so none of them had to play along. Federico smiled at her, “the gayness seems to be catching.”

Lucy rolled her eyes at that (quick as a whip crack), “tell you what, don’t worry too much about the dick loving that’s taking over your family because we all know that you like taking it up the ass as much as anyone.”

Federico laughed so honestly and so suddenly that Altair (sitting at his side) flinched at the eruption of sound before he started giggling too. Malik looked confused but Cristina was blushing bright-red and shrugging when Malik looked at her. “But _from a woman_ ,” Federico corrected. “I’m still straight.”

“God, could you explain that to Desmond?” Lucy said. “Anyone?”

“I am aware,” Desmond said from his safe place away from the table. “We are not talking about our sex life right now.”

“You really should do it once,” Altair said. 

“What would you know?” Desmond snapped back too immediately to give himself time to think it through. Too long spent repeating this argument had given his brain a script. Federico answered his statement by holding a hand across the table and motioning meaningfully at Malik. (That, in and of itself, was an interesting interpretation of the situation.) “They haven’t had sex yet.”

Federico snorted at that revelation, “well then he’s been _practicing_.”

“ _Constantly_ ,” Altair said with a huff of great defeat. Malik was rolling his eyes across the table. Rather than play the part of the perpetually embarrassed newcomer, Malik said, “I think you’re all failing to understand the greater point here. Rather than encouraging him to ruin his life by discovering the many wonderful uses for his ass, you should be cautioning him against developing an addiction. Look at all of you,” he made it sound so _admonishing_ , “you can’t even have a five minute conversation without talking about dick. Desmond still has a chance.”

Federico and Altair were considering with the same dumb stares and Lucy was slow-grinning at every word. Cristina was pink-embarrassed because she was perpetually outdone by the filth that they found themselves discussing. “True,” Federico said. “One of us has to stay respectable.”

“Someone needs to have goals in life,” Altair agreed.

“We thought it would be Ezio. He was so straight—look at what happened to him.” Federico sighed so _dramatically_. “It’s better if you don’t try it, Desmond. Do it for us.”

“Alright,” Lucy cut in. “That’s enough. Fuck all of you. Stop giving him excuses, he does just fine on his own.” Then she got up, “dinner’s ready so you guys have to finish this up or move it somewhere else.”

“What the hell is zax?” Federico was saying to the side. Altair’s answer was a laugh because the two of the idiots had argued for fifteen straight minutes about what dictionary they were going to use to verify if that was even a word and what it meant. (And if Altair could use a word when he couldn’t articulate the definition.) 

“A man who cheats,” Malik answered.

Altair just laughed harder.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Remember no sex. You told me to remind you
> 
> Thanks
> 
> No problem. What’re you doing?
> 
> Back at Altair’s now. Listening to Altair and his cousin argue in Italian
> 
> Hot.
> 
> Well it’s not boring, at least

Malik had gone to the balcony because the interior of the home was too full of sound. Lucy interrupted the argument that had been ongoing in quick-slick-Italian to start shouting in French and Altair had spent half a breath to be confused by the interruption before he answered her. Not to be outdone, the little boy had started interjecting and Altair was carrying on a conversation with the three of them. Desmond added a fourth voice to the mess and while it was impressive (surely) but it was overwhelming. The whole mess of them were at ease with one another in a way that was amazing to see and difficult to break into.

Or maybe he was only tired. Malik was known to get peevish whenever he got tired. Too much noise-and-too many bodies moving around him were aggravating on the best days. So he found his way to the balcony that was accessed through Altair’s bedroom and sat on the chair to breath in the after-dark chill. The city had a smell that invaded his head and left him feeling lonely for something _familiar_. Maybe Malik hadn’t put a lot of thought into what Kadar had said to him about the need for trees before, but after dark in the city (by himself with this _smell_ ) it made more sense than he thought it would. 

Footsteps interrupted his morose musings. When he looked over, it wasn’t Altair but Federico that was letting himself out onto the balcony. He wasn’t anything at all like the way he’d been described. Rather than offensive and mean, he seemed perpetually exhausted by the effort of maintaining a conversation. His face wasn’t dangerous, his body didn’t impose a threat. He was unspectacular in many ways. (But then, Malik had never watched him fighting someone in person, so there was that.) Federico sat in the seat next to him and put his feet up on the railing on the balcony. 

“Hello,” Malik said.

“Did Desmond already do the obligatory threatening?” Federico asked. He was running his fingers through his hair, leaning back into the seat like he was going to stay a while. The ease of his body did nothing to undermine the odd ominous thrill of is words. 

“It wasn’t threatening, but he’s asked me to be careful a few times.” Malik shifted in his seat. “Were you going to do a proper job?”

Federico hiccupped a laugh. “It would be counterintuitive to ask you be gentle to him at this point, wouldn’t it? He might think you don’t love him anymore if you start treating him with too much kindness.” And they were nodding together, the two of them. Federico sighed out and melted into place on the chair. Whatever lingering notion Malik had of him as a predator were lost in the lazy sprawl of his careless limbs. Federico said, (almost like he didn’t want to), “that idiot loves you. God _damn_ does that idiot love you.”

“I’m partial to him, myself.”

“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Federico said. He even put his fingers up to forestall the misinterpretation of his words. “We, me—my mother, father, brother and sister? We aren’t _Altair’s family_. Not the way that matters. His family is Desmond and that’s all he’s got. So when you get to that point where you’ve walked into one too many poor jokes and you’re fucking sick of being treated like someone’s _girl_ friend, remember that? Don’t blame him for _us_.”

That was a peculiar warning to offer. Malik said, “do you imagine that I’m going to walk in on an offensive joke and leave it? Do I strike you as the sort of man that’s going to let you send me to make a sandwich?”

“Like I said,” Federico said. “It would be counterintuitive to ask you to be gentle now.” Then he got back to his feet and hovered on the edge of cupping his hand around Malik’s shoulder. He lingered a half-minute on Malik’s left side before looking at his face. “Is that why he got that tattoo? Did he know?”

Malik nodded.

Then Federico whistled. “What an idiot. It was nice to meet you.” Then he patted Malik on the back of the shoulder and went back inside.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> What did you do to Ezio?
> 
> These people talk about him like he’s dying of a terminal illness
> 
> I ruined him.
> 
> Not so differently than how you ruined me.
> 
> Poor bastard.
> 
> Will he get over you?
> 
> I’m trying to convince him to fall in love with a woman.
> 
> I’m happy to be his illicit extramarital affair.  
> 

“What about blowjobs?” Altair asked. They were working on getting ready for bed. Altair was in his bedroom changing his clothes and Malik was brushing his teeth in the bathroom (already dressed for sleeping). “Does that count as sex? That’s not _really_ sex is it?”

“It is a sex act.” Malik rinsed his brush out and wiped his face before he went out to find Altair sitting on the edge of his bed looking simultaneously very tired and unhappily unsatisfied. The pout on his face was as endearing as it was annoying. “I’m not your girlfriend,” Malik said. It wasn’t anything that Altair had said to him but he didn’t seem surprised to hear the statement. If he was offended it didn’t show in the way his hand reached out to curve around Malik’s hip and pull him a half-step forward. 

“There’s no way I can know that,” Altair said. He was sitting right on the edge of the bed. The warmth of his hand was spreading across Malik’s skin. “You could be a flat-chested girl.” His head rested against Malik’s body. His hair was damp from the shower he’d taken, it was ruffled up from being towel-dried and left alone. Malik stroked his fingers through it.

“I’m not.” Malik shifted his stance and Altair fingers were coiling up his T-shirt, lifting it up his belly. Every little inch that was revealed was tingling with sudden, distracting awareness. “Have you really been practicing?”

“Don’t tease me,” Altair said into the bare skin of his belly. “If you’re not going to let me suck your dick, tell me now.”

“You can make it one more day,” Malik said. He tightened his fingers in Altair’s hair just enough to make him look up and ducked down to kiss him on his stupid mouth. He’d spent far-too-long thinking about Altair’s mouth in the past week. “Right?”

“Or you could just let me suck you off,” Altair countered. He kissed Malik again as he stood up. “Don’t you want to know?”

“Know what?”

Altair’s voice was so low and so _catastrophic_ to his will-power when he said, “if I really do get off on giving head? Don’t you know to know if I can come just from having your dick in my mouth?” He kissed Malik’s jaw and his neck, made a pleased noise to answer the groan that rattled out of Malik’s chest. “Imagine me on my knees.”

Malik’s fingers tightened in Altair’s shirt and he tipped his head back. For a minute he just luxuriated in the slow drag of mouth across his neck and collarbone. There were hands working up under his shirt, spread out across his ribs. Altair’s thumb was tracing the scar on his left side but the right was going around his back to slip down toward his ass. “You don’t get told no very often do you?” At this point (really) Malik was only saying no on principle because he had more than enough ideas about what Altair would look like on his knees.

Altair groaned in a way that was no attractive, like a child moaning about housework. “Fine,” he said. Then he kissed him again before leaning back. “Let’s just go to bed.”

Malik laughed and went around the bed. There was a second blanket waiting for him on the pile of pillows. He unfolded it while Altair dropped his phone on the bedside table. He flopped onto the bed. The two of them laid there for a minute. Malik was _exhausted_ at the end of the day. “Are you going to quit pouting and sleep?”

“No,” Altair countered. But he covered himself up and turned off the light. “Good night Malik.”

“Good night,” he said. He rolled onto his side and frowned at the darkness in the last few minutes before Altair dragged him back so they were cuddling. He turned his head and Altair kissed him. “Sleep well,” Malik said.


	63. Chapter 63

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> I think the problem is obvious.
> 
> I cannot wait to hear this
> 
> Stop asking. Look I’m no authority here but I want to point out two things that you told me.
> 
> One is that Malik never lets you have anything you want. I remember you complaining about this before we even knew he was a guy. Why would he start now?
> 
> The other is that he has expressed an actual worry that he can’t appreciate a romantic relationship because he’s used to exclusively sexual ones. Stop pushing and whining and begging. Enjoy getting to know this guy as a physical person in your life and not just a line of text across the internet.
> 
> But if he could stop being so attractive while he’s close enough to touch
> 
> That would be great

Malik took long showers. Altair wasn’t sure if that was his everyday habit or if it were unique to his bathroom. He spent most of the time Malik was getting ready laying in his bed but he managed to pick himself up, get dressed, pack clothes for a few days (carelessly, really) and then stand in his closet contemplating the button down shirts he truly detested having to wear. They were almost exclusively reserved for dress-code situations. He just wasn’t sure if Malik’s Mother was really a dress code situation. (He wasn’t sure if he should make the attempt to be presentable after all the things she undoubtedly knew about him at this point.)

“What are you doing?” Malik asked. He was rubbing the towel against his hair, standing there with his pitiful white undershirt on. The water dripping out of his hair made the collar damp and stuck the shirt here-and-there to his chest. 

“I was trying to figure out if I wanted to wear a nicer shirt,” Altair said. “I don’t, personally, think that there’s anything I can do to salvage your Mother’s opinion but any advantage I can get is an advantage I want.” 

Malik was just smiling at him like he was too precious and stupid to be saved. After a pause and a brief glance around his closet, he looked back at Altair (wearing jeans and an inoffensive long sleeve shirt) and just shook his head. “What you’re wearing is fine,” Malik said. “Are we having breakfast before we leave? Are you sure you want to drive?”

The alternative was following the same public transit that had brought Malik to him. While he was willing to tolerate trains and planes when he had to, Altair was uncomfortable (to put it mildly) with most public transit. “I thought we’d eat before we started. You’re welcome to go through the pantry if you want.” But before Malik could turn to go do that, Altair said, “what about London? Would it be inadvisable to take her?”

“Because of my Mother or my cat?” Malik asked. He looked around the floor and then back at him. “Where is she?”

“Sleeping in her crate in the kitchen. Either? I can leave her with Desmond if she’ll be a hassle.” He picked one of the shirts closer to him (one that was a nice dark red tone that he’d been told looked nice against his skin but wasn’t too garish to look at). Malik took note of him getting the shirt but didn’t say anything about it.

“You can bring her. Kadar would look after her if she became a hassle. He likes animals.” Malik walked back toward the bathroom to hang the towel up with the others (Altair presumed) but was in the kitchen when he finally finished being indecisive about whether or not he needed a nicer shirt. In the end, he stuck with the one he started with, and found Malik eating cereal and going through his phone. “You sent me texts while I was in the shower,” he said.

There was simply no denying the compulsive habit of narrating his thoughts through texts. He had sent a few texts, mostly questioning whether or not he should even pack clothes. It had become a terrible habit of his that he simply did not pack and instead bought clothes wherever he went. It was easier than trying to anticipate whatever needs he would have when he travelled. In the end he’d decided to pack simple clothes but Malik was shaking his head at him while Altair shrugged. “Did you answer me?”

“No,” Malik said. “I thought we should work on communicating face to face.”

“If we must.” But the conversation died because Altair had to pack the dog up for travelling. As soon as her dishes rattled, London was darting out of her precious hiding place to trail around his heels trotting on happy-little-paws. She’d already had breakfast (but try explaining that to her) but she didn’t stop following him until he put on his hoodie and tucked her into the pocket. He sat down to eat a bowl of cereal after he’d moved the bags over by the door and Malik sat opposite him with a sigh. “I could call you if that would make it easier,” Altair said.

“That’s stupid. If we weren’t both right here, we’d be arguing about what brand of cereal has the best taste.” He picked his bowl up and slurped the milk out of it. The milk caught on his lips and fell into the goatee that was dark across his chin. Altair pulled a napkin from the side and handed it to him. 

“Do you talk a lot? Out loud?” Altair asked.

Malik shrugged. “With some people.”

Altair smiled at that. “Clearly we need practice. We’re going to be stuck in the car together for hours so, we’ll have time.” Then he spooned a mouthful of cereal into his mouth and Malik ran his fingers across the surface of his phone. He shrugged like it made sense. “Don’t stare at me while I’m eating.” 

Malik opened his eyes even wider before he got up. “I’ll go get my stuff. Eat fast so we can go.”

\--

Son-of-No-One: @sass-badger says she’s not old enough to drive… (20m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, she can’t even put both paws on the steering wheel (18m ago)

The picture that Altair posted on his feed was London trying to get her paws on the steering wheel while she was standing on the driver’s seat. She had been very disappointed to be summarily moved to sit on Malik’s lap. Twenty minutes ago she’d spent every minute of her time trying to wiggle out of his grasp to get back into Altair’s lap. She was tiny under the fur. Her bones felt miniscule when he closed his hand around her ribs to keep her from escaping and his grip wasn’t tight enough to prevent her from getting her freedom. Altair had laughed but when he turned his head and said, “no London. Stay.” She sat her ass on Malik’s thigh and cried a protest with one paw hovering in the air to display her distaste at being spoken to so harshly.

“—and Aquila,” Malik was saying. London had laid down in the past ten minutes. She found a comfortable slant on his leg and settled her head on her little paws. His fingers were rubbing down her back (at first to calm her, and now simply because he had started and she was very soft). “He’s kind of dumb. They told us that he was going to get bigger but he’s still very small. He doesn’t like jumping up onto things and that might be because he’s not confident yet but Kadar thinks that Sailor knocks him off the table when we’re not around. Or used to. He probably doesn’t do it anymore.”

“I’ve never had a pet,” Altair said. He shrugged at that. “Grandmother didn’t like animals. She said that they were noisy and we were never home enough to properly take care of one.” Then he made a sideways slanting motion with his mouth. “The Auditores don’t have pets because they travel in and out of the country too much. I remember Claudia tried to have a cat but it ran away while she was gone and she blamed the maid for it. She looks charming but she never forgives.”

“Federico wasn’t anything like what I thought he would be,” Malik said. 

“Federico is— He’s a lot of things. He won’t be mean to you as long as you’re my—uh, boyfriend.” It was clear from the awkward flinch in Altair’s face that what he meant when he said ‘boyfriend’ was ‘dependent significant other’ (perhaps _girlfriend_ ’) and he was aware even as he said it that it would be vaguely annoying. “Also, on his own he’s not that bad. It’s Ezio you have to watch out for. Never trust a man with a face like his.”

“I thought you liked Ezio.”

“I do. Ezio is a good guy. He’s well-meaning. He’s got more heart than most of his family. But there’s no consequences for his actions. I mean—he _invited me_ to Italy to beat up your artist friend and he left Leonardo to get beat up and did that stop him from running off with the guy? No. Don’t trust a man with a face like that.”

Malik couldn’t remember if he knew which Auditore had invited Altair to Italy. It wasn’t significant in light of the greater problem that they had simply allowed him to do whatever he wanted. “Yeah, well. I don’t think Leonardo really cared that he was being set up. He wanted to see you so he would have found a way. And he wanted to fuck Ezio, so he would have found a way. It was just convenient both were in the same place.” 

“What happened with him and you?” Altair asked. He looked sideways long enough to see Malik lift his eyebrows at the question and then picked his hand up off the steering wheel to make a conciliatory gesture. “I mean, how did you meet? Why didn’t you fall in love with him? Because you turned him down but he still punched me in a kidney last time I saw him.”

Of course he did. Leonardo wasn’t naturally prone to violence but he had studied enough anatomy and medicine that it was almost inconceivable that he hadn’t inflicted some kind of damage on Altair. (Of course, looking at his face in the aftermath, it was likely shock and pain that kept him from mounting a defense.) “Our dorm rooms were a few doors away from each other. We met when we got locked out because our roommates were having sex with other people. So we got something to eat and became fuck buddies. Then friends, I guess. I don’t know when or why he fell in love with me. I didn’t fall in love with him because I was distracted by someone else.”

Altair was grinning like a damn bird fluffing up its feathers. 

\--

Sass-Badger: if you didn’t have enough reasons to hate him before, behold @son-of-no-one’s definition of a ‘healthy snack’ (15m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I’ll work it off @sass-badger (15m ago)

They stopped for gas and snacks. (Altair even let Malik take a picture of the cookies and the cheap beef jerky before he ate them.) London wandered around sniffing the slushy piles of snow for fifteen minutes rather than finding a suitable spot to use the bathroom so they could move on.

“What have you done to this dog?” Malik asked after the third time London started snorting indignantly at a used patch of grass. The dog sneezed her distaste as she trotted away from the offensive odor and went looking for yet _another_ location that might suit her needs. “What the hell is she looking for?”

Altair shrugged. “She doesn’t want to just go _anywhere_. Will you just use any toilet you find?”

“Yes?” Malik said. “I use public bathrooms on a regular basis. What are your bathroom criteria?”

“They have to be clean.” That was most likely the moment that spurred them onto a stupid quest because directly after it, Malik’s entire face scrunched up like he didn’t understand the word and then he was asking a hundred pointed questions about what clean meant (because London didn’t want to take a shit on that patch of grass). So they had to go get the key to the bathroom and stand in the doorway while the overwhelming smell of urine and liquid sugar-soap emanated from the dim depths. “That is _not_ clean,” Altair said.

“So you wouldn’t use this bathroom?”

London did not even go into the room and Altair was doing his best job to keep from blurting out something offensive about the bathroom (since Malik seemed to be offended by his standards). “No,” Altair said.

The gas station was a few blocks from a strip mall with stores that ranged from car insurance to sports collectibles. Malik dragged him into each one (with London stuffed in his pocket), asking to use the bathroom. 

The car insurance place didn’t have public restrooms, the deli next to it only had bathrooms for paying customers (so Altair bought a couple of sandwiches). The deli bathroom had the superficial look of cleanliness, the aged floor and the framed photographs of faded flowers distracting away from a toilet that looked as if it had been enslaved in the hell hole since the sixties. The sink was a yellowish sort of color but there was no way to know if it was supposed to be or if it had reached the point where it could no longer be cleaned. 

“I would use this bathroom if the need was great,” Altair said. “Like it was this or public humiliation.”

“This,” Malik sounded _amused_ rather than angry, “is a perfectly clean bathroom.”

No it had dirt in the corners and cracks in the linoleum that covered the floor. The tank on the toilet looked suspiciously grayish and there was simply no telling how many asses had sat on that seat. “Perfectly is a strong word,” Altair said.

They took their sandwiches in a to-go bag and went to the beauty supply shop next door. The lady behind the counter looked amused at their request for a bathroom and sent them to the back of the store. The bathroom was a nightmare of dirt-streaked and speckled floors, stinking of poor fragrances with a greasy light and a broken paper towel dispenser. 

Malik’s face was pink with delight as he stood a foot into the room watching Altair try not to say something stupid. “This one no good for you?”

“Who is this good enough for?” Altair hissed at him. He looked over his shoulder back toward the lady at the counter. “What are you trying to prove? Malik.” But Malik grabbed his hand and pulled him out again, said a brief thank you to the lady behind the counter and kept yanking Altair behind him until they got to the sports store. 

Their bathroom had the recently-renovated look that gave it an air of cleanliness that probably wasn’t the truth. “What are we even doing?”

“If I said we could have sex right now but it had to be in this bathroom, what would you do?”

Altair looked around the bathroom. On the one hand, possible sex with Malik was the kind of thing that he’d been daydreaming about for a while now, and on the other hand, the walls were dark enough that it would be impossible to distinguish any problematic type dirt. There was no urinal and the seat of the toilet was already propped up but that didn’t mean some douche without the ability to aim hadn’t already pissed all over it. The sink was brand-new, all white but the taps were a tarnished kind of silver that meant they’d been there forever (or were filmy with filth). “Because the possibility of catching incurable disease turns you on?” Altair said. And Malik laughed at him. “This is not funny! Look—look at this! There is dirt on the floor and it’s in all the little creases, look at that corner there’s—” Altair could have kept going because once he saw the dirt there was simply no stopping his brain from acknowledging the whole of it. But Malik pushed him out of the bathroom and caught his hand to guide him toward the front of the store. 

They were out on the sidewalk again, lingering between the sports store and the game store next door. Malik turned to look at him with his eyes narrowed. “That really bothers you doesn’t it?”

“What?”

“Could we fuck in the car?”

“No,” Altair said. He said it so quickly that it was almost embarrassing. (To be fair, Malik was not the first person to ask him to have sex in a car and Altair simply didn’t understand what the appeal was when cars were cramped and small.) “Do poorly cleaned public bathrooms bother me? Yes. Yes they do.” 

“I don’t like squirmy bugs,” Malik said. As if it were related to his distaste for bathrooms. “Worms? Those little ones that roll up into balls? Caterpillars. Centipedes, I don’t like them.”

“There probably were centipedes in there,” Altair said. He pulled London out of his pocket because she was squirming around at all the noise. She barked curtly until she was put on the ground and sniffed delicately at the sidewalk, slowly pulling them down to the dirt at the end of the shopping mall. “I don’t like places that don’t look clean,” Altair said. “If you’re going to tell it’s because I’m a rich snob than do it so we can have the fight and move on.”

“You are a rich snob,” Malik said like he was conceding the point. “But, you seem like you’re actually scared by _’the dirt’_ and you’re just not a good enough actor to fake it.” He tucked his hand into his pocket. “Everyone’s afraid of something.”

“I’m not _scared_ of the bathroom,” Altair said.

“Sure, that’s why you had sex in all those janitor’s closets with those hot women in the airports. That’s why we’re having sex in that bathroom right now.” He was already turning on his heels to head back toward the car. 

“We need to talk about your standards.” Altair was stuck in place until London finished but as soon as she was done, he scooped her up (and after cleaning up after her) jogged down the sidewalk to where Malik was waiting by the car. He was eating his sandwich with the careless air of someone who was indiscriminate about bathrooms, pointedly and persistently amused by Altair. “How many closest have you had sex in?”

Malik licked the crumbs off his lips and narrowed his eyes, staring into the middle space over Altair’s shoulder while he thought. Then he said, “three? I have had sex in a bathroom and I had sex in a car once. One of the closets was in someone’s house. I don’t even remember why we ended up there.”

“I had sex in an airplane bathroom.”

“I know,” Malik said. “Come on, if you’re looking for an advantage with my Mother, we probably should try to get there on time.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> I’m not even obsessed with physical fitness and I hate your boyfriend more than ever
> 
> He doesn’t like soda. Apparently, he’ll drink it but he doesn’t like it
> 
> If he doesn’t like tacos, you have to dump him.
> 
> He likes tacos
> 
> You should take him to the cheap taco place, see if he stops breathing
> 
> What?
> 
> He’s afraid of dingy places
> 
> So he should take me out for high class tacos, that’s what I’m hearing.

London took up residence of the backseat when she got sick of Malik’s lap. She whined after his sandwich for a minute and when she was denied their brief friendship had come to a sudden halt. Altair had settled the whole matter by putting her in the backseat and she had barked at him to be sure he understood how displeased she was before discovering her blanket and happily attacking it. 

“Any chance that your Mother is as easy to please as your brother?” Altair asked. “The more you tell me about Kadar, the more it seems like he liked me before you did.” 

That was no an inaccurate summation of events. “He didn’t _like_ you. He _defended_ you.” That was an important distinction. Kadar would defend anyone, regardless of who they were or what they’d done. “I was being a bully. He doesn’t like bullies.”

The traffic was slow for a Thursday, Altair leaned to the side with his elbow on the window and his fingers barely gripping the wheel. The amusement drained away from his face in a way that was indefinable. The hollowed-out violence that was left behind was _inhuman_ in intensity. The change was in his voice, robbing it of inflection so every sound was a precise pronunciation and nothing more. “If you were a bully, what was I?”

“That was my defense.” Ineffective as it was. “I think Mother and Kadar are more alike than Mother is like me. Leonardo and Kadar think that Mother and I are essentially the same person. If that even approaches the truth, the only chance you have to change her opinion of you is honesty.”

A quirk of a smile came back to Altair’s face. 

“What?”

“I was trying to remember if I’ve met anyone’s Mom before and I remember I slept with his one woman’s Mom. I mean, I didn’t know it was her Mother but I found out about it later because they lived together and the Mom came home. That was _awkward_.” But apparently funny enough to smile at the memory of it. He turned his head slightly to glance at Malik. “Probably not something your Mom would think was funny?”

No. Not even at all. “My Mother thinks that sex should be reserved for marriage, and if it cannot be reserved entirely for that purpose that you should treat your body and soul as precious and not give them away indiscriminately.” All the more reason that Malik had spent too many days ignoring the inevitably deluge of information that would follow after his public debut. The men that he’d fucked and walked out on were full of secrets that would make his Mother despair over him. 

“Well I fucked—uh, eight—nine hundred people and my body and my soul still belong to me.” Altair motioned at his whole body.

“Eight hundred people?” Malik said. It shouldn’t have been a shock because Altair had whored his way through Europe for almost a full year and there were two hundred unopened messages in his Sex-Saturday e-mail box that he simply hadn’t had the time or fortitude to look through but the number was still far beyond anything he imagined. “You can fuck eight hundred people but you can’t use a public bathroom?”

“That is a rude comparison,” Altair said. 

“You don’t have AIDs or Herpes or—syphilis?” Because the odds of not contracting a sexually transmitted infection seemed impossible to calculate. Malik wasn’t even offended on a personal level (the way he’d seen other men get pissy about dating women that had sex before them, or even the way Altair probably would get around anyone Malik had sex with in the past) but caught in a wave of sheer disbelief.

Altair was chuckling with a shrug. “I have caught a few bugs, but not those, no. Ezio got syphilis once though. I was fourteen or fifteen so he was—nineteen or twenty . I remember Mama Maria was so angry at him that the only thing she would say to him was _dicks are no substitutes for brains_.” It was a fond memory judging by the smile on his face. 

“These are not the stories to share with my Mother.” 

Altair just laughed. “No funny stories about that time I had chlamydia?” 

“Eight hundred people!” Malik shouted again. “How do you not have illegitimate children? Condoms are only ninety-nine percent effective, what are the odds that you don’t have a child somewhere?”

Altair shrugged. “To the best of my knowledge, I do not have an illegitimate child. I do have a team of lawyers that handle the paternity requests. I’ve probably gotten more of those than I have actually had sex. Besides, you’re assuming that I had vaginal sex with all of those people and I didn’t. Six of that number was from the same night at Desmond’s bar, I just laid on this bench in the back and—”

“No,” Malik said before the story could go any further. Altair was grinning when he was interrupted. “I’ve read the stories, I get the idea. No need for you to elaborate. Definitely not the sort of thing that you should tell my Mother.”

“I stopped having sex with strangers because I fell in love with you,” Altair said. “Can I tell her that?”

Well that was a hard reminder of those months between a resolution that was unfair and the amputation of his arm. The months of using Leonardo as a loophole to keep from having sex with strangers and deal with the futile lust that came from constant exposure to Altair-the-guy he couldn’t have. “If she asks, that would be the kind of thing to mention. So you’ve never had sex with any other men except me?”

“No,” Altair said. “I don’t remember having sex with you either.” He added, “but I’m a fast learner, if you’re worried about my performance.”

“Eight hundred fucking people later,” Malik muttered. “You better be the best fucking lay I’ve ever had.”

Altair laughed bright-and-loud. 

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> I didn’t pack a different shirt.
> 
> I should have packed a different shirt
> 
> If I don’t make it, you can have all my stuff
> 
> Sweet.
> 
> You’ll be fine.

Malik’s house was neither as small as Altair thought it would be nor as old. The front of it was plain enough, the same rectangle, a door and some windows as any house ever. The driveway was a skinny, narrow strip that led to the house so that Altair was parked on the street in front of the house, positioned with the passenger side door by the walk that led to the front door. It was neatly (freshly) shoveled. Malik got out of the car and went to the trunk to get his bag, he paused by it when Altair hovered indecisively against his side of the car. 

“She’s not even home yet,” Malik said. “You’ve got an hour to worry.” Then he motioned at the trunk until Altair opened it. He left his own bag in the trunk (there was no way that he’d be invited to stay in this house) but got London and her bag out of the backseat. 

Inside, the house had the newly-cleaned smell. Furniture polish and vacuum cleaner that blended together in a way that reminded him of his Grandmother’s grand mansion. There was a slight smell that ran under it, something fragrant and edible that he didn’t immediately identify. Altair took his shoes off because Malik told him to and hung up his coat next to the others by the door. 

Sailor, the white cat, was lounging on a window bed. He cocked his head and eyed them with squinted eyes that were dismissive at best. London was trying to squirm her way free of Altair’s hands so that Malik said, “you can put her down,” and when he did, London immediately fell to sniffing this new place. The white cat eyed the new stranger intensely but he didn’t immediately jump down. 

A skinny black cat darted out from under the couch, ran straight up to London and when the dog barked, turned around and darted back under the couch. 

There was a rustle of noise from upstairs before a stampede of noise coming down the steps made the white cat meow and Malik was petting the cat with a great deal of affection that was tolerated (not encouraged). Kadar hit the first landing near the bottom of the stairs and then hopped down over the bottom two steps like they were clearly for _unnecessary_. “You weren’t supposed to be home,” he looked toward the dining room (and one presumes the clock on the wall in that room) and then back at them. “For at least a half an hour.”

“We hit good traffic,” Malik said. “We’ll go to the kitchen.”

“Yeah, good,” Kadar said. Then he went back upstairs. 

Malik rolled his eyes and motioned Altair after him. They went through the narrow dining room, past the gleaming table and the impeccably clean shelves, and into the kitchen. It was an odd-shaped room made of intrusive corners and strangely proportioned doors. There was a pot on the stove (perhaps the source of the edible smell) that Malik inspected briefly before adjusting the heat. 

“What was that?” Altair asked.

“His girlfriend’s here,” Malik said. 

Ah. Well that explained that. London trotted into the room and discovered the cat dishes. She slurped at the water with her tail wagging behind her enthusiastically and then nibbled on the cat food in the shallow dish. Sailor walked into the room like a king, every motion of his body making the length of his silky-looking long hair sway.

Malik leaned against the counter and assessed the situation while the cat sat and twitched the end of his tail. “You should probably get your dog,” he said.

Altair picked London up and she growled at him for being separated from the food. He was halfway through feeding her in the opposite corner of the room when the sound of feet on the stairs announced the arrival of Kadar (now more completely dressed) and his pretty girlfriend. 

“Uh, Altair,” Kadar said. “This is Stephanie. Stephanie, this is Altair.”

“Hi,” she said. It was evident that she was working through whether or not she should be impressed to have met him. There was a pause of time when she looked at him and then at Kadar as if she were trying to work out how tall she thought Altair would have been. Then she smiled evenly. “I have to go, but it’s nice to meet you. I signed your petition.”

“Thanks,” Altair said. 

Kadar nodded and then they left the room again. He came back a few minutes later while Malik was still smirking by the counter without saying a word about what was amusing him. Sailor was lying by his food dish, flicking the end of his tail while he watched London eating her food across the room. When Kadar came back, he said, “get out, I have to finish dinner. I had to vacuum under the damn couch again so make sure one of you lifts it up and comments about how clean it is.”

“We will,” Malik assured him.

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> I’m going to die of blue balls
> 
> But also shame
> 
> The shame is a surprise
> 
> The shame is pretty damn surprising.
> 
> I wasn’t aware I had a sense of shame
> 
> But you know, got a hard on and his Mom came home about the same time
> 
> I laughed so hard I dropped my phone

Malik’s room was so precisely put together that one might have accused him of staging the image. The bed was set into the center of the far wall with a table on either side of the bed. There was no clutter on either surface, no clutter on the floor, and no clutter peeking out from under the bed. There was a desk at the end of the bed that had a clear surface, with compartments on either side of the seat that held boxes that contained office supplies neatly stacked in their own place. There were CD racks and bookshelves behind the desk. Every shelf was exactly filled with books of the same size and approximate thickness, starting at the shortest and thinnest and ending with the thickest at the very bottom. There were no pictures on the walls. The dresser by the door, when Altair opened one of the drawers, was filled with neatly folded squares of clothing and his closet (that Altair peeked into when he walked past it) was organized with plastic boxes and clothes that hung by color. 

“We can never live together,” Altair said. Even the bed was made with crisp corners. He set London on the floor as Malik kicked his door shut and they were locked in to the painfully well-kept room. London went sniffing around the floor, disappeared under the bed and came out on the other side with no sounds of a struggle. “How do you live like this?”

“Pretty easily,” Malik said. “I know exactly where everything is.”

“I could cut myself on this sheet,” Altair said. He ran his fingers across the crisp fold and wondered (not for the first time) how it was that Malik managed to make it so neat with only one hand. He’d also wondered about how he did up buttons and tied his shoes and a thousand other ugly curiosities that he had to bite his tongue to keep from blurting out. “I have two maids and my beds aren't this well made.”

“Why do you have two maids?” Malik didn’t sit but look around his room with his eyebrows drawn down together and his mouth in a frowning-slant. “My room is perfectly livable. If it makes you feel better, I adapt well to various surroundings. I survived college dorms with complete slobs and I lived with Leonardo for several months and that was basically like living in a dumpster.”

Altair sat on the bed, “why did you live with him?”

“Because I was gay and I thought my Mother would hate me so I couldn’t come home and face her. Then I lost my arm in a car accident.” Malik sat next to him. Their knees and thighs were touching, upper arms and elbows purposefully pushing at one another. 

“I assume your Mother didn’t hate you.”

“She was disappointed that I thought she could hate me,” Malik shrugged. “It seemed like a real enough fear to me at the time. She’s had the same religion her whole life, I was only around for eighteen years.” Then he sighed. “Do you know anything about your parents?”

“You mean would they care if I was gay? Or in general?” Either way, the information that Altair had about his parents was pretty slim. Grandmother hadn’t made maintaining contact with his family in Syria a real priority in the long run and Nan was too quiet and haunted to connect with much. Altair didn’t feel a great absence where other people kept the love for their Mothers. The lack of Maud had simply never been a loneliness that he felt. “Not much,” he said. “Of course, I thought I knew a lot about my Grandmother and I didn’t know that much about her either. What can you even know about your parents, really?”

Malik made an amused sound. “I just found out my Mother seduced my father before they were married. And that she has been falling in love with this same guy for years. I didn’t know either.” He shrugged. London came back out from under the bed and jumped up to put one of her paws on Malik’s pants leg and bark at them. He dipped down to pet her behind her ears and then straightened again. “Are you nervous?”

Yes. “No,” he said. “I was trying to figure out which one of those boxes had the dildo in it.”

“It’s in the dresser.” Which was far more information than Altair thought he’d get. Even the way Malik said it was very unimpressed. He motioned toward the bottom drawer and shrugged when Altair looked at him. “The badger is on the shelf in the closet. The cats think it’s a toy.”

Altair couldn’t possibly stop the smile that crossed his face, the way he imagined Malik couldn’t stop the faint pink blush that made his cheeks rosy. The more he smiled, the more Malik tried to frown (and failed). “Can I kiss you in your Mother’s house?” he asked.

“Not in front of her,” Malik said. (That was a curious rule.)

Altair shifted on the bed to get one hand on Malik’s cheek and kissed him because the blush was still pink under his thumb—all warm and comfortable—and his frown was quirked up like a smile at the corners. Malik wasn’t shy about kissing him the way Altair thought he would be, but wiggling to turn his body so he could put his hand on Altair. It was a sweet, chaste sort of kiss for a breath, just until Altair’s other hand touched Malik’s chest. He said, “is this where you watch all that porn?”

“No,” Malik said. He pushed Altair back and he fell into the pillows at the head of the bed. The headboard knocked against the wall and his arm rapped against the wood in an attempt to slow his descent. Malik was sitting across his thighs with a smug smile on his face, leaning down with his hand on the pillows under Altair’s head. He was close enough to feel the ghost of his breath when he whispered, “usually I’m right here.”

There was absolutely nothing chaste in the way Malik kissed him then.

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> Malik, I hear that you are torturing our mutual friend
> 
> I did not give him to you so you could mistreat him.
> 
> You didn’t give him to me. He was always mine.
> 
> But, I didn’t do anything to him
> 
> Yes, arousing him and then feeding him to your Mother is pure innocence
> 
> I didn’t do that on purpose
> 
> Is he being very whiny?
> 
> He’s confused and horny but in my experience that’s his natural state in relation to you.
> 
> Of course it is

Kadar interrupted them with a polite knock and a cleverly-cheerful voice saying: “Mom just pulled into the driveway.” Then he ran back downstairs and most likely dashed back to the kitchen before Mother made it into the house.

Malik sat back on his knees and looked toward the door. He considered the possible excuses for failing to go immediately downstairs to greet his Mother and found nothing that would be convincing enough to substitute for the truth. When he looked back at Altair, who had gone from pointed, aggressive lust to wide-eyed, open-mouthed staring (in fear? Perhaps) he just sighed. “Sorry.”

Altair’s response was to stare down between their bodies at his lap and the noticeable erection contained in his pants before looking at Malik. “I don’t think you really are.” He groaned (not in a positive way) whenever Malik climbed off his lap and took a moment to grip at his dick before he got both of his legs over the side of the bed. He closed his eyes before he covered his face with both of his hands.

“What are you doing?”

“Multiplying six digit numbers together,” Altair said through his hands. As if everyone in the world could simply do that. Malik got up and dug his calculator out of his desk, the noise made Altair look over at him. “You’re going to test me?” he asked. “I’m a genius.”

“So is Leonardo but he still can’t add two digit numbers without fucking up. So two seven four eight eight five times seven three eight six five?”

The look that Altair gave him accused him for being an idiot. “Two hundred seventy four thousand, eight hundred eighty five times seventy three thousand eight hundred and sixty five?” Then he narrowed his eyes and turned his head down to look at his fingers laced together between his knees. It wasn’t even enough time to properly think through how impossible it must be to multiple those numbers together before Altair looked up again to say: twenty billion, three hundred and four million, three hundred eighty thousand, five hundred and twenty five.”

While math seemed to kill Altair’s hard on, the idiot sitting there looking utterly innocent (and somewhat vaguely smug) while he smiled at him did absolutely nothing to cure Malik of a similar problem. He didn’t even waste his time telling Altair he was right but tucked the calculator back where it had come from. “Go back to school,” Malik said. “You’re disgusting.”

“That’s not even as impressive as you think,” Altair said. “And I don’t like math. Just because I can do it doesn’t mean I have to like it.” Then he stood up and grimaced. “Why don’t you go first and I’ll be there in a minute?”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I told you Mom was home so you’d come downstairs not leave me with her

Mother inspected dinner and then the dining room table (where Kadar had tried to make the best out of the assorted dishes that had survived Malik and him over the years) and came back to the kitchen to inspect dinner again. 

“I thought you wanted me to make the soup,” Kadar said after his Mother spent a good three minutes frowning at the pot and another half-minute frowning at his perfectly fried pita chips. (To be fair, he may have only chosen to fry the pita chips because he liked them so much.) 

Rather than comment on this, Mother said, “perhaps you should go and fetch your brother.”

Kadar was only spared that fate by the sound of feet on the steps. He motioned outward toward the other room and added, “there they are. Probably busy looking at—Malik’s _dictionaries_?” Every word grew steadily more awkward. Mother just shook her head at him and his attempt to make light of a situation as grave as the one they now found themselves in. He sighed and picked up the bowl of pita chips to carry them out to the table. He’d made hummus and a salad to go with dinner. Not that they would ever be allowed to eat it. 

Malik stopped when he saw Kadar and Altair (trailing behind him) stopped short just beyond him. The dog was barking unhappily from upstairs where she must have been left trapped in Malik’s room. 

Mother stepped into the dining room carrying the salad in one hand and the hummus in the other and set both on the table before she dusted her hands against her apron and turned fully to face Altair. There was nothing _funny_ exactly about the situation but the way Altair (more than a foot taller than Mother, significantly broader and in general, very much larger) was clearly, _obviously_ intimidated by Mother was somewhat funny.

“Mother,” Malik said. His Arabic had never been so technically perfect before in all of their lives. “This is Altair. Altair this is my Mother.” Then he stood there looking very much caught between nerves and amusement. 

Neither of them spoke. Mother narrowed her eyes and Altair didn’t flinch but it was clearly only because he had steeled himself against any show of obvious weakness. Just when he was sure to have opened his mouth to say how pleased he was to be invited, Mother said, “you have undertaken quite a lot of time and effort to secure an invitation to my home.” The statement alone did not indicate if this was a good or bad thing.

Altair floundered for a minute before he said, “I am honored to have been invited.”

Mother’s smile was _forgiving_ , and Kadar started grinning about the same time Malik lifted his hand to his face to press against his cheek. It was the gesture of a man admitting defeat. Mother said something in a language that was _familiar_ but unknown. For a moment, Altair looked _confused_ but what he was hearing and then recognition dawned on his face.

His smile was probably far worse for his case than the stilted words he pieced together (hopefully in the same language) to answer Mother. By the end of his sentence he was squinting in concentration, wheedling on an uncertain tone. Malik was just sighing. 

Mother said, “your accent is poor and you speak like a very small child.” And then she switched to another language (and Kadar could not swear that he was aware his Mother even knew more than the two she spoke frequently in their house). That one made Altair wrinkle up his nose and shake his head. 

He answered in— “That’s Hebrew,” Malik whispered at him (Kadar must have looked like he wanted to know). –with more confidence than he had the first time. Then he switched to something that was most likely French, and then German and settled in Italian with the fine-wine of fluency before switching back to Hebrew. 

Mother’s eyebrow raised just enough to convey how unimpressed she was, “you are welcome to sit at my table if you are certain your ego will fit.” Then she looked at Malik who just dropped his hand away from his face so he could show Altair where he should sit. Mother took her usual place and Kadar was left to be the first one to speak after that.

“Well,” he said, “I hope everyone’s hungry.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Remember when you met my Mom and she basically invited you to move in and marry me?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> I think she’s in the backyard polish stones to kill Altair
> 
> He does have that effect on people.
> 
> The irony of this moment is that while your Mother approves of me, I am not capable of making you happy and the man she disapproves of so strongly is.
> 
> Why’s that?
> 
> Because I could not love you more than my own freedom and he cannot love anything the way he loves you. You would be happy with nothing less than constant adoration. You’ll never be lonely for it with him.
> 
> I did not think you’d ever say a kind word about him
> 
> I don’t like him. But I cannot deny the truth.
> 
> Neither can your Mother. So just give her time.

Dinner was an awkward series of stilted, attempted and failed conversation starts. Kadar took up most of the time-and-space of the speaking, told Altair the entire history of the campaign to get the school codes changed and how his photographs factored into it. Altair offered useful commentary and praise where appropriate. Malik watched Mother’s face as she assessed every word that was passed between the two of them. 

She did not smile, not once, the entire time they ate. 

When dinner was finished and the dishes were cleared away, Mother excused herself to sit in the backyard. Kadar slapped Altair on the arm. 

“Well, you survived.”

Altair spent ten minutes sitting in the living room with them, stiff and unresponsive to comment. He picked at the inseam of his jeans with his fingers, plucking at the threads until he got up with the rather transparently-thin excuse of, “I need to let London outside.” 

Malik didn’t fight him about it (or tell him it was a bad idea) but as soon as Altair was up the stairs to get the dog, Kadar leaned forward and slapped him on the leg. He hissed (quick-and-low), “you’re just going to let him go get himself killed like that?”

“What am I supposed to do?” Malik hissed back, “tell him that he can’t go talk to her? That’s basically why he’s here, isn’t it?” They were sitting upright, as calm and collected as anything when Altair came back through the living room carrying the dog in one hand. He paused only long enough to fetch his shoes from the front entry and carried them through the house toward the back door. It opened and then shut before Kadar let out a sigh.

“Well, your boyfriend is dead. I hope he left you something in his will.” Then he craned his head like he could see through walls. “Do you think she’ll kill him slowly or like all at once?”

“Stop being stupid,” Malik said. (But if it was him, he wouldn’t be kind enough to kill Altair all at once.)

\--

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> So Malik’s Mother speaks Kurdish, Hebrew, Arabic and English
> 
> No need to worry that she doesn’t like me
> 
> I know now in four languages exactly how much she doesn’t like me
> 
> Well you’re off to a good start.

It was colder outside than Altair thought it would be. The snow was a garish white glint against the ground that cast long-pale shadows against the house and the outbuildings. Lamah was sitting at a table snugly set against the house on a patch of concrete that had been shoveled clear. Other than the sweater that she wore, there was nothing to provide any warmth. Altair set London in the thin snow near the edge of the patio and then pulled out the seat opposite Lamah and sat in it.

Malik’s Mother did not look like her son (not the one that interested him the most) in any noticeable or overt way. They had a different facial structure, her skin tone was ever so slightly darker than his, her eyes and her hair were lighter. Her nose was slimmer, her mouth was smaller and the set of her bones seemed delicate and slim in comparison. Whoever she had married to produce the children she had must have been a behemoth in comparison to her. The only familiar thing about Lamah was the expressions that she made, the near perfect mirror of her oldest son’s every emotion cast in iron on her face.

“I did not come here to negotiate for the right to date Malik.” (But he had, in a way.)

Lamah’s lips quirked up in a neutral expression that called him an idiot much more effectively than any words might have. “As I do not have any daughters, I would not expect there to be the need for any negotiation. But if there were negotiation to be had, I would not be speaking to you about it. Children are too immature to know what is best for them, young lovers are impulsive and easily driven by their desire rather than their hearts.”

There was nothing at all to gain from playing this game. Advice had been poured into his ears (over the years) about how to handle offended Mothers. Ezio, especially, had perfected the art of fixing ruffled feathers with his saintly smile and his smoothly-accented words. If he were here rather than Altair, he might have picked a string of words to lay the whole matter to rest. “I’m an asshole,” he said. “I trust you know enough reasons to know that is true,” and Lamah did not nod but quirk an eyebrow to agree, “and that’s not even half of the reasons that I could list for you. I am chronically, repeatedly, extremely unworthy of anyone, much less someone like your son. My short-comings outweigh my strengths.”

“Why does it frustrate you to know that I do not approve of you?” She settled back into her chair with _real_ ease, the sort that Altair was trying to fake and failing. She tucked her hands in against her sides with her arms crossed over her chest. 

There were so many reasons—an infinity of reasons, from his simple pride to the notion that he’d never get laid if she couldn’t at least pretend to tolerate him and then again it was— 

“Oh,” Lamah said at his silence. “That is very selfish of you.”

“Your disapproval of me isn’t?” That wasn’t much of a defense. It wasn’t any sort of a defense.

Lamah ran her tongue across her lips before she spoke. “If you are able, imagine carrying a child and giving birth to it. Imagine holding that child in your arms and knowing, even if you cannot be sure why, that this child will face great obstacles in his life. That he will have to overcome unnecessary cruelty and travel through dark place, _alone_ , and that there is simply nothing that you can do to stop it. The best that can be managed is building him a shield to protect him when things are at their worst and giving him a candle to light his path when things are darkest.” She paused a moment to let the imagery sink in. “ _You_ treated _my son_ with cruelty. You treated him as _nothing_.” Her words were simple and flat, nearly toneless and yet rich-and-full of the long-harbored distaste that she had for him.

“I know,” Altair said. Because it was _true_.

“You _do not_. You broke the shield, you took the light, you left him _alone_ because you were an ignorant, spoiled _child_ ,” Lamah said. The catch of something _raw_ and far more _painful_ than Altair had attributed to the disaster was wet-and-red around the edge of her voice. Then she drew in a breath. “My son does not attribute these petty crimes to you. He feels they were inevitable. Imagine how differently he may have treated himself if you had shown him compassion? If you had been capable of more than using my child to sate your lust?” 

London trotted back over to paw at his pant legs and Altair ran his tongue across his lips before he bent down to pick her up. Lamah did not look away from him while he did it, but wait for his response with her perfectly neutral face. “When I met your son, nothing mattered to me. I was there because the people who control my life told me it would improve my image. I fucked him because I was drunk, and he was _available_. I left him because I was _afraid_. I forgot him because I was _terrified_ someone would know what I’d done if I ever admitted I remembered. The cruelty that my ignorance has inflicted on Malik is monumental. If our places were reversed, I could not be moved to forgive a man who treated me with that level of careless, selfish _disregard_.”

“Yet, you are offended because I do not approve of you.” 

“I am offended because I am not the stupid _boy_ that left your son in that hotel room.” It wasn’t as simple as all that. He looked down at his hand cupped around London’s body as she shivered up against his belly and then up again at Lamah. 

Her expression was as hard and unimpressed as it had been at the outset. She sighed a breath into the cold. “My Husband’s Mother detested me. My Mother told me that my Husband would amount to nothing. My parents were wrong and I knew it in my soul. I hope that in twenty years, my son will say the same. You should not waste your time begging me for approval, when you have proven yourself, I will give it.”

“I would settle for civility,” Altair said. Since it was all he could hope for. “For Malik’s sake.” He didn’t think that Lamah was going to punch him in the kidney (but then again, she looked as if she were perfectly capable of such a thing). Still, he tensed in his seat as she considered the proposition. 

“Maintain your manners and I will treat you as I treat all guests,” Lamah said. “Whimper at me for things you have not earned and I will put you out as all unwanted pests must be put out.” Then she got up from her seat and headed for the back door. “You should find a place to sleep for the night. I understand you are familiar with at least one hotel in our town.”

Altair clenched his teeth and let her go back into the house. His jaw ached from the cold and the tension that held his teeth so tight together he could barely push breath through the gaps. The silence dragged before Malik came out wearing his coat and carrying Altair’s. He shuffled over and stood next to him.

“Come on,” he said. “We found a hotel that takes dogs and costs more money than anyone should be willing to pay. They even have an open room for a few days.” Then he held out the coat. “Kadar took London’s stuff to your car. Get up, walk it off.”

Altair got up if only because he had been _dismissed_ and pulled his coat on after trading London to Malik for the coat. When he thought he could unhinge his jaw (after they were through the gate on the side of the house toward the front yard), he said, “I just had a glimpse into our future.”

“How?” Malik asked.

“You _are_ your Mother, you just have to finish growing into it.” He felt all raw around the edges when he stopped in the front yard and looked at Malik. The things he thought were settled were knocking around in his head, falling to bits-and-pieces (here and there) so that he wasn’t _sure_ now if he had ever apologized the way he _needed_ to. “Malik,” he said.

“No.” Malik shook his head too. Then he shrugged. “I have to deal with _every single Auditore_ , the entire _world_ and the media’s bullshit; you can handle my Mother.”

“I’m sorry,” Altair said. “For the way I treated you. I didn’t know you were seventeen but even if I didn’t, I shouldn’t have—” He drew in a breath and let it out again. “I _am_ sorry. For using you, and for leaving you, and for mocking you, and for being _such_ an asshole. The only reason that I even _might_ deserve to be forgiven _eventually_ is that I was lucky enough to make you angry and to keep your interest long enough for to help me realize I needed to become a better person. I’m sorry and _thank you_.”

Malik looked back at his house and then at Altair again. “You’re welcome,” he said. “Don’t apologize again. If I wanted an apology, I would have told you I did. If you were the same person you were when I met you, we wouldn’t be here. Now let’s go before it gets colder.”

Altair nodded and then went around to get into the car. 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> You don’t have to come home, you know.
> 
> I didn’t bring any clothes
> 
> Sleep naked. Bring him back for breakfast.
> 
> Mom said, ‘tell your brother to do what will make him happy. That is what I want.’
> 
> I think she feels bad for telling off your boyfriend.
> 
> I have a key if I decide to come home
> 
> Good night Malik
> 
> Good night

Altair was unimpressed with the bathroom. He was very vocal about his disappointment about the tub. When he finished raging about the dimensions of the bathroom, he came back out to sit on the end of the bed with Malik. 

“Are you going home?” he asked. The careful fear in the words was more interesting than the depressed lag of his shoulders in the aftermath of Mother’s calculated attack. 

Loyalty was a funny thing. He was inclined to return to his Mother to appease her distaste for Altair (at least for a few more days) but he knew, even before he opened his mouth to answer, that he wasn’t going back. “I don’t think so,” he said. And Altair smiled. “You’re not getting laid in a hotel.” He said it so immediately that Altair rolled his eyes at him.

“I am capable of thinking of other things. Even if you’re in the room.”

Malik smiled. “Let’s see if you’re still saying that when I take my clothes off. I didn’t bring anything to sleep in.” Then he smiled and Altair smiled back at him. Altair leaned forward to kiss him and Malik let him do it (briefly) before he pulled back. “I’m exhausted. Sleep?”

“Yeah,” Altair said. “Want to borrow a shirt? I have a lot of them.”

They went through the motions of getting ready for bed and Altair went to get a second blanket from the front desk (since he stole the blankets) and they wiggled around the unfamiliar bed until they found a position that was comfortable. Altair kissed the back of his neck and said, “I love you.”

Malik smiled when he said, “I love you too.”


	64. Chapter 64

> **Desmond**
> 
> That bitch called me a small-minded parasite feeding off hollow admiration from others to feed my own ego
> 
> That was after she asked me if I was half as impressive as I said I was 
> 
> A SMALL MINDED PARASITE
> 
> How did you just figure that out?
> 
> The only Kurdish I know is ‘Father’ and ‘more cake’
> 
> So the relevant stuff.
> 
> I had to look it up
> 
> You’re off to a bad start if you’re already calling his Mother a bitch.
> 
> I don’t think anyone would like to know their boyfriend thought that way
> 
> He must have some idea.
> 
> Since I’m sitting in the car outside his house waiting for him

The knock on his window interrupted Altair’s tirade defending his use of the word ‘bitch’ in regards to Lamah (if only because she attacked him without provocation and called him a parasite). When he looked up, Kadar was standing there with his hands curled around the straps of his book bag. The kid (if you could call someone that was only four years younger than you a kid) was far too tall for his own good. He had to duck his head to the side, that same grin stretched across his face as he watched Altair rolling down his window. 

“Your idea or his?” Kadar asked. 

“He told me to wait here,” Altair said. Of course, Altair had not put up a fight (not even a little one) when he was told to stay. It was expedient to let Malik go fetch whatever it was he felt that he needed from his house while Altair waited. There was no reason to go barging into the house this early in the morning, stirring up the same shit as the day before. 

“You are so lucky that you’re good looking,” Kadar said. He sounded _amused_ by it. Then he glanced down the street and let out a low breath in the cold. “I have to go or I’ll be late. What’s your number? I’ll call you when school’s out. I’ll buy you tacos and try to teach you how to thrive in these new adverse conditions.” Kadar pulled his phone out of his pocket and tugged his gloves off his right hand so he could poke at the buttons to put in his contact information. 

“You’re going to be late,” Malik said when he reappeared from the house. He threw his bag into the backseat of the car and leaned over the top so Altair couldn’t see his expression at all. Whatever it was, Kadar stuck his tongue out before he held up a hand to wave good-bye and started walking. Then Malik slid down into the car and closed the door behind him. 

“You didn’t want to give him a ride?”

“No,” Malik said. “He’s walked to school every day for four years. He knows the way.”

\--

sass-badger: it’s amazing how quickly my feed has devolved into questions about @son-of-no-one’s penis. Simply amazing (10m ago)

Son-of-no-One: looks like they didn’t read the rules. Don’t ask @sass-badger about my penis, you won’t get an answer. (4m ago)

The morning had not gotten off to a spectacular start. Malik had woken up alone (in a hotel, with an empty space where Altair should have been) and overly warm. Not because of the blanket (although it was very nice) but because the heat in the room that must have been tampered with during the night. Once he successfully made it out of the bed, he found Altair slouching into the couch with his knees spread indecently wide, wearing nothing but his underwear, frowning at his laptop while he mouthed whatever he was hearing through the earbud in his left ear.

“What are you doing?” (A logical question for anyone to ask upon finding such a scene.) And Altair’s answer had been: “figuring out what your Mother called me yesterday.” Either he guessed that Malik was unhappy because he’d been abandoned in a hotel bed (and was overheating due to the sahara like conditions of the room around them) or he was otherwise used to responding to hollow social cues because Altair looked up long enough to smile sheepishly at him. “I’m sorry. I’ve been up since three, I wasn’t sure if you could sleep through the light from the screen so I didn’t stay in bed.”

That was forgivable enough. So Malik took a shower and they went to pick up an assortment of necessary things. He left Altair in the car since the man was frowning at his phone like he wanted to strangle it (and his laptop when Malik came back from the shower, had been shut and thrown into a chair). There was no reason to purposefully set Altair up for failure. Mother, who was always awake and in the kitchen at seven in the morning, had made note of the absence of his boyfriend.

“Did he decline to join you this morning?” Which implied that she was also heaping the title of ‘coward’ onto the noticeably long list of things that she already thought of Altair. Malik had only sighed.

“I told him to stay in the car,” he said. There was no defense against it. And Mother looked ever so slightly wounded by the words. As if he had kept them separate because he thought she wasn’t able to control herself. (Instead of the more accurate thought that Altair couldn’t.) He hugged her and told her to have a good day at work before he went to get clothes and his computer from his room. 

Breakfast was drive thru food that Malik was surprised that Altair agreed to eat (considering his sophisticated pallet and his aversion to germs) before they ended up back at the hotel. 

“What do you want to do,” was the start of a conversation that took six hours to come to any sort of fruition. 

It was:  
“What do you want to do?”  
“I don’t know. The weather channel says it’s supposed to snow all day.”  
“You make that sound like it’s surprising given that we are currently in the middle of winter.”  
“I didn’t say it was _surprising_ , I said that it was going to snow all day. I don’t like being cold.”  
“Is that why it’s a hundred degrees in here?”  
“That is a gross exaggeration. It’s barely eighty degrees in here.”

But it was also:  
“Did you have any idea what you’re doing for the second video?”  
“I thought we were going to figure it out together.”  
“I thought since you denied all responsibility for the coming out of the closet video that I wasn’t supposed to help with this one. So I haven’t thought about it.”  
“Oh, I haven’t thought about it. Did you have any suggestions?”  
“No.”

And then it was:  
“Malik? I’ve been trying to talk to you.”  
“I thought you were watching TV.”  
“Not unless the TV cares how we tell the whole world I’m gay.”  
“It’s just you that’s gay now?”  
“Actually, I’m bisexual.”  
“Make sure that we mention that whenever we film the second video. I’m coming out of the closet, dating a guy but I still like vagina. No worries about me being completely _emasculated_ by my new found desire for dick.”  
“That is not what I said.”  
“It seems like what you meant.”  
“Fine.”  
“What were you trying to say?”  
“I wasn’t saying anything. I was watching TV.”

And also,  
“We could go swimming.”  
“I don’t have anything to go swimming in.”  
“We can go get you something?”  
“Sure, we’ll go to the nearest store that sells swim trunks in the middle of March. Then we’ll spend money that doesn’t need to be spent buying them. I don’t want to go swmming.”  
“Why?”  
“Because I don’t.”  
“Fine.”

But back to:  
“It’s not funny if you just show up in the beginning of the video. The whole idea of them is to reveal who you are. If you give that away in the first five seconds, what is the point in the whole rest of the video?”  
“Entertainment? How is watching you draw something or—or look for lingerie that I wouldn’t wear even remotely entertaining?”  
“Because it builds suspense for the moment when you’re finally revealed.”  
“But it’s boring.”  
“I’ll take my shirt off, that seems to stave off boredom.”  
“That cannot be your solution for everything. At some point you need to figure out how to be entertaining with your clothes on.”  
“If you don’t like my ideas, just say so. We don’t have to use them. It’s supposed to be your video anyway.”

The final one had gone like this:  
“Stop flipping the channels on the TV. Just find something to watch.”  
“I am trying to find something to watch. What does it matter to you? You said you didn’t want to watch TV.”

That was a few hours ago. Malik had simply gotten up and walked away because saying anything to the childish asshole that was taking up all the space on the couch (and controlling the TV remote) would have ended with a much larger fight. He hadn’t intended to take a nap when he laid down but he found himself waking up anyway. Rather than get up (like he should) and go find out what the jerk was doing (like he did want to), he laid in bed looking at his phone frowning sourly at the screen.

On the one hand, almost all of the time that Malik had known Altair had involved fighting with him. Most of those fights had been based solely in childishness (not so unlike what Altair had displayed the entire morning with his obnoxious, belligerent, _intentional_ avoidance of all topics). The only difference between those fights and the one they seemed to be stuck in at the moment was that _this_ one was happening immediately and Altair’s eye-rolling bullshit was physically close enough to find _immensely_ disrespectful. The only basis for comparison that Malik had was the few times he’d ever fought with Leonardo and they had settled those debates with satisfyingly rough sex and respectful debates afterward. 

(Neither of those notions would work with the present situation. It seemed that if he let Altair get it into his head that fights could be solved with fucking that they’d never manage to talk about anything again.)

Malik pulled himself out of bed because he was hungry (not because he felt like it) and went out to find Altair fully dressed and making indecisive sideways frowns at his phone. He looked up when Malik came back. He was clearly uncomfortably unsure but he said, “I’m supposed to go get tacos with Kadar. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to go to.”

Probably not. Malik sighed. “Can you drop me off at my house on your way to get him from school? I’ll try to find where I put my swim trunks while you’re out.” That didn’t seem like such an overwhelming compromise but the way that Altair nodded his head like _of course he should do that_ made Malik frown at him. 

“What?” Altair asked.

“Nothing. Are you leaving the dog here?”

“I can,” Altair said. “If you don’t want her at your house.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea since Sailor doesn’t like her.” Then he picked up his bag from where he’d dropped it on the floor when they came in and carried it back to the bedroom with him. Altair made a sputtering noise behind him but didn’t protest. In fact, he didn’t say anything that wasn’t completely necessary the entire trip to dropping Malik off at his house.

When Malik got into his house, Sailor turned his head from where he was laying in his window seat, extended a paw toward him and meowed as a demand for affection. Malik rubbed his head. “My boyfriend’s an asshole,” he said to the cat. But really, “that’s not a surprise, is it?”

\--

> **Lucy – coffeeshop girl**
> 
> I don’t know why Desmond told you
> 
> Because he’s a pussy so he won’t fight you.
> 
> It’s not like I called the woman a bitch to her face
> 
> I think the worst part of that is that you think calling her a bitch behind her back is better.
> 
> You asshole, you can’t just meet the woman once, get called the same thing by her that her son has called you for the past three years, decide you don’t like it and start calling her names!
> 
> SAYS THE PERSON THAT CALLED MAMA MARIA A SHIT-MOUTHED WHORE AFTER HAVING MET HER EXACTLY ZERO TIMES
> 
> Do you want to have this argument because I was relying on your intellectual intelligence and your emotional immaturity but if you want to equate what THAT WOMAN did to Desmond to what Malik’s Mother did to you, then little boy, we will have this argument.
> 
> What gives her the right to call me names and act like I’m that awful
> 
> The same thing that gives me the write to call Mama Maria a shit-mouthed fuck hole with anti-feminist ideations and a psychopaths’ dead smile. 
> 
> *right
> 
> But its okay for you to compare me to Mama Maria
> 
> You hurt someone, Altair. Lamah defended them.
> 
> When Mama Maria hurt Desmond and you defended him, I was on your side. I’m not this time. Because you’re a whining asshole calling someone names because you didn’t like what you heard. You can act like you’re upset about being called a parasite if you want but I don’t buy it. You’re angry because she didn’t fall at your feet.
> 
> So you’re a dick.
> 
> Congrats.
> 
> shit mouthed fuck hole
> 
> That’s what I said.
> 
> How did Desmond even attract you?
> 
> I wanted to sit on his face. But then I discovered he was a really great guy. 

The ‘taco place’ that Kadar took him had tight booths and greasy-looking tables. It served tortilla chips on waxed paper covering plastic baskets and smelled (everywhere) like a bottle of oil had been dumped and cleaned up poorly. Altair had been raised to think it was rude to leave your jacket on inside but he declined to remove his hoodie because without it, his arms would touch the various surfaces around him that looked dubiously clean. He ordered water because there was no point in costing money when he probably wasn’t going to eat anything. 

“That’s funny,” Kadar said when he finished ordering. The waitress that took his order had the distinct look of a woman who had served the same guest so often they were only there for show. She even patted Kadar on the back affectionately before she left. “Malik told me you that you didn’t like cheap places.”

“That is not—” At all true.

“Relax. I don’t take it as a personal insult. I’m aware of where I stand on the economic food chain. I haven’t even ever had a job, ok? So no judgment from me.” Then Kadar pointed at the basket of chips and the dish of salsa like asking if Altair was going to eat it and when he shook his head no, both of the items were pulled to Kadar’s side of the table where he could easily reach them. “So,” he said. His attention was on the chip that he was dunking into the salsa and not at all on Altair. “How do you think things are going so far?”

It was a ridiculous question, almost as ridiculous as the way Altair sighed.

Kadar nodded his head while he chewed the chip. “I have two vital bits of advice to give you about how to survive my brother and my Mother. One of them is that, you can’t sit in the car. It means you’ve given up, that you’re content to let things stay the way they are or, worse, that you’re a coward afraid to face an unpleasant situation head on. That’s a death sentence. The second is honesty.”

“He told me to stay in the car,” Altair said.

“So? You’re the one that decided to listen.” Kadar stopped eating the chips long enough to dust his fingers off and lick the salsa off his mouth. “I don’t know why _you_ don’t know this but every decision you make is your responsibility. You can’t make the choice to stay in the car and then blame it on Malik. He didn’t tie you to the seat. So, just remember that every choice that you make is always your own fault. Then be honest about why you made that choice even if you don’t want to be. So why did you stay in the car?” Kadar picked up a chip at that point, dipped it in salsa and then put it in his mouth. He chewed it while he waited for the answer he obviously felt he deserved.

It was more than a little stupid when Altair turned the glass in the water ring it left on the table and said, “because I spent the morning teaching myself Kurdish to figure out what your Mother called me last night and I was angry at her. So I was in the car explaining why I thought she was a bitch.”

The most interesting thing was the way Kadar’s hands tightened where they had been resting by his elbows on the table. How his face flinched away from the open-honest (teddy-bear like) good humor into something instantly closed off. His tongue ran across his lips but it wasn’t the carefree gesture of a hungry teenager. It was a calculated swipe, just before, “now, you might think that I’m the right brother to say that kind of thing to. I understand that because I’m the nice one but if you, ever, for any reason, call my mother any such thing to my face or behind my back ever again, I will put razor blades in your breakfast cereal.” Every word was so perfectly calm and even that the threat (when delivered) was underscored with absolute certainty. It would be carried out exactly as planned. 

“I was mad.”

“No,” Kadar corrected, “you’re a self-important douche that’s still working on accepting the whole world doesn’t actually want to suck your dick. My Mother is worth an infinite number of your selfish, whiny ass and you should probably remember that when you’re crying to your phone at seven in the morning, hiding from her disapproval.” 

Altair made a noise like a laugh (but it wasn’t) before he sat back in the booth and dropped his hands down to slide them into his hoodie pockets. “I honestly expected to have the more judgmental family in this situation.”

Kadar shrugged. “That’s my Mom.”

“I know.” Altair sighed. “I have spent most of the day waiting for your brother to figure out what I did. Or being angry at him for not—defending me against her. I get that she’s your Mother but at what point do people stop blaming me for something I did—three years ago? Something that the people that were involved in have already discussed and moved past?”

Kadar stopped short of laughing in his face but the sudden shift in his expression from quiet disapproval to disbelief and back again was almost the same. “You think Malik’s over prom night?” he said. “No—that’s not even a question because of course you think that. He wants to jump on your dick so bad he’s probably even convinced himself that he’s over it. But that’s not the point anyway. At what point do you get over what happened to your cousin?”

“That is not the same,” Altair said. “Why do people keep bringing that up? I didn’t _do_ to Malik what _those assholes_ did to Desmond.”

“Yes you did!” Kadar shouted at him. As if he simply couldn’t cope with the conversation a moment longer. The shout drew the attention of the lazy hostess camped out near the front door and the few other patrons that had been attempting not to listen this whole time. “And maybe not all of this is on _you_ because each of us have a responsibility to care for ourselves—even my stupid brother—but _you_ keep acting like we’re unreasonable for still being angry. Find me _one_ person, just _one_ out of your whole fucking family that said a bad word about Desmond or failed to protect him that _you know of_ and explain to me how you’ve forgiven them. How you’ve really, truly forgiven them.”

“I didn’t _intentionally_ hurt him.”

“How do you _unintentionally_ fuck someone, leave them and bad mouth them to the press? How do you say the things you’ve said to my brother since you found out about Sass _unintentionally_? If you run over a kid with your car because you’re drunk, do you think anyone cares that it was _unintentional_? You _went_ to that stupid prom, you got drunk and you were _old enough_ to know what it feels like to get drunk and instead of leaving you decided to fuck my brother. Those are _choices_. You woke up scared, so what. You made the _choice_ to leave him. You made the choice to spit your homophobic bullshit everywhere. Nothing you did was _unintentional_ , it was selfish and it was petty and it was only meant to protect you. You didn’t care about him, the way you haven’t cared about any of the people you’ve had sex with. The fact that you love him now? It doesn’t absolve you of what you’ve done. The fact that you wouldn’t do the same thing now that you did then? It doesn’t equal forgiveness. You _made those choices_ and it’s simple math. A zero takes a very long time to average back into something decent.”

The waitress arrived with the food (a giant platter of tacos) and set it down in front of Kadar with a wary glance back and forth between them. “Are you okay?”

Kadar turned to her with the most convincing, beautiful and sincere smile that any man had ever looked at any woman with. He said, “I’m fine. We’re trying to settle an old debate that I just get passionate about.” And while not a single word was a lie (precisely), the sum of all the words weren’t true. The waitress bought it, patted Kadar on the shoulder again and walked away with only a single glance backward. 

“I thought you liked me,” Altair said.

That earned him Kadar rolling his eyes at him. “I do. I am capable of liking you, thinking that you’re ultimately good for my brother, and telling you that you’re a spoiled little shit. I can multitask my feelings. I’m telling you that if you really want this to work with Malik, you have to stop acting like the consequences of your actions are unreasonable. Intentional or not, every choice you make creates consequences and you have to stand by your choices, for better or worse.”

Altair looked down at the floor (and wished he hadn’t) in time to catch the gleam of light across the old surface. It had the distinct yellowish sheen of a floor that had gone too long without being replaced. While the age of it didn’t bother him, the film that coated the floor made his stomach turn over even while his hands coiled up into fists. “Can you pack that up to go or something?”

Kadar was grinning at him again. “It really does bother you doesn’t it?”

Then he just frowned and Kadar laughed all the way to the door of the kitchen where he asked the nice lady for a to-go box. He paid for his lunch and then sat in the passenger seat of the car stuffing the tacos in his face almost all the way home. When they were at the last red light before they turned down into the neighborhood, Kadar said, “so you know what you did to Leonardo, right?”

“Yes, I am aware.”

“So, if my Mother wasn’t against physical retribution, that’s what she would have wanted to do to you. Maybe with less restraint. Just to give you a comparison of how angry she is, in a language that you might understand.” Kadar sucked the taste of the tacos off his fingers and wrapped the rest of the little paper bits up into a ball to drop in the empty container on his lap. Kadar shrugged, “you should tell Malik you called our mother a bitch.”

“How could that possibly do any good?”

“It’s honest. Honesty is always more important than protecting your ass.” Then they pulled up to the curb outside of the house. Kadar grabbed his things and go out of the car, paused just behind the passenger door, ducking low enough he could peer into the car. “Get out of the car and come into the house, moron.” But all the way up on the front step, Kadar sighed like he didn’t want to have to say it and said, “Malik will probably slap you. So wait until I’m upstairs?”

Since Altair should be all concerned about Kadar’s well-being. (Or maybe Kadar was trying to give him the illusion of privacy to get himself slapped in.) 

Inside, the house smelled like spices—all hot and delicious—and Altair found Malik in the kitchen sitting at the table, staring at his phone with a blank-empty sort of expression. He thought about the whole of the stupid day (wasted and awful). Malik was getting up to his feet like he was torn between being glad to see him and resignation at having to deal with him _again_. (Wasn’t that funny, when Altair was feeling very much the same way.) He said, “your mother called me a small minded parasite that feeds off the hollow admiration of others.” Which made Malik’s eyebrows raise up toward the uneven mess of his bangs. Altair charged ahead with saying, “so I called her a bitch when I was talking to Desmond and I don’t know if I’ve been waiting all day for you to find that out through—fucking ESP or if I’m angry that you didn’t defend me because I thought—”

Whatever he might have said next was interrupted by Malik slapping him. While it wasn’t the most effective, or even most powerful, hit that had ever landed across his face (Maria Thorpe’s sharp little hands came to mind) it was one of the more hurtful. Malik sucked in a breath of air to fill his lungs and said, “you will _not_ speak about my Mother that way. I would not defend you to her because _I_ know that it doesn’t _matter_ what she thinks of you. It’s not her _life_ and it’s not her _choice_ , it’s _mine_. She knows that as well. Your relationship with her is now and will always be separate from my relationship with you. _I_ am the opinion that you should work to secure, _not her_. You are doing a poor job of maintain it by calling her names.”

Altair had spent the tirade looking at the buttons on Malik’s shirt but he dragged his eyes back up to look at his face when his words broke off. The stinging in the side of his face was a sort of sharp-metallic pain, diffuse and yet distinct at the same time. Whatever else he had meant to say all boiled down to, “I’m sorry that I spoke disrespectfully about your Mother.” Then he nodded his head and turned leave. His progress toward the exit was halted by a hand on his shoulder. “I don’t want to do this right now,” he said when he turned back to look at Malik. “I don’t. I’m _tired_ of being belittled and _berated_ by your family. I don’t _want_ to hear anymore of it.”

“At least the people in _this house_ are judging you for things that _you have actually done_. I get warned that your fucking family is going to call me a fag and treat me like a woman but you get told that we don’t appreciate your careless behavior and suddenly you’re throwing temper tantrums and calling my Mother a bitch!” Malik looked almost as surprised to be shouting as Altair was to hear him shouting. His cheeks bloomed up red in angry splotches and his arm waved out to the side in an uncoordinated attempt at gesturing. 

“What?” Altair said, “who told—fucking, Federico?”

“That’s _not the point_ , Altair.”

“What is the _the point_?” Altair shouted back. He lifted his arms up over his head, like he could raise the whole fucking house and drop it again, shake out all the parts that didn’t make sense and leave behind the things that had happened in those brief moments _before_ this disaster started. “I’m just supposed to accept the attack?”

“Why are you angry? It was all true.”

“Because I don’t like _getting attacked_!”

Malik rolled his eyes in almost the exact same way that Kadar did. “That’s the only reason? Seems like you make a habit out of instigating a bad situation. You’re a _child_!”

“I’m _not_ a fucking _child_!” But the words were rattling out of control in his chest and his hands were coiling up into leaden fists. His shoulders were bunching up under his clothes. Everything was focusing down on a single point, the tightening creak of his knuckles pushing up under his skin and the intensity of that need to exact vengeance for these spoken slights. 

“You’re acting like one,” Malik corrected. “You didn’t get what you wanted so now you have to throw a tantrum so you’ll get your way!”

“Fuck you!” Altair shouted. 

“You would be so lucky,” Malik hissed at him. His face was caught in perfect, utter defiance of even the _idea_ and for a moment, that was the only thing that Altair could wrap his head around. That he was two-foot-away and he’d never be able to touch. That all of this stupidity would end because his hands were fists and the anger in his chest was so vibrant and so real that it was leeching away his common sense. Malik was just _staring_ at him with an open challenge like he _understood_ exactly what he was inciting and didn’t even _care_. But Malik was tipping his head and he was saying, “I need you to unclench your fists,” and his eyes darted sideways so Altair turned his head and found Lamah standing in the doorway of the kitchen looking not at all particularly impressed at what she found. 

Altair loosened his hands and shook his head. “I’ll just see myself out,” before he went for the back door because it was most expedient. Outside was cold, at least, and that was refreshing enough after the heated-red blush all over his face. “Fuck,” he said to the snow that was still falling. “ _Fuck._ ”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Dick.
> 
> You set him up!
> 
> ‘take me out of tacos’
> 
> ‘let me fill your head with stupid ideas’
> 
> He needs to know your priorities, man.
> 
> He called Mom a bitch. To me. But he’s not my problem, he’s yours.
> 
> He wasn’t a problem until you!
> 
> Well, that’s a lie.
> 
> Now go talk him out of killing himself. He’s just lying in the snow. Exposure takes a while to kill.

Mother did not look embarrassed to have walked in on them but there was an edge of discomfort in the way she lingered in the doorway. Every evening of Malik’s life (that he could remember, that he was in this house) had begun with his Mother coming to the kitchen to see what could be made for dinner. “Would you like me to give you a minute?” interrupted the schedule that had held true the whole of his life.

“Yes,” Malik said. He was looking down, not up, because he was _furious_ and he was _hurt_ and at least half of those feelings were heaped on her shoulders (rightfully or not). When she had retreated from the doorway he looked toward the backdoor but he didn’t move toward it. He persisted in the same confused sensation of wanting to fix the problem and wanting it to fester because the asshole deserved it. 

Kadar interrupted him with his helpful texts but it was Mother’s reappearance that stalled him longer. She sighed. “I resent my Mother more than I remember loving her. She threatened and terrorized me for loving your Father. His Mother was the same. They were happy enough to have you, but they were vocal and constant about how our union wouldn’t last and our son would grow up in an unstable home. I don’t want your resentment, Malik. It is the least of all things that I want.”

“I don’t—”

But Mother frowned at him. “I want to keep it that way. Concentrate your attention on him now. Give yourself the chance to see what it would be like to have a life with him. Have fun with him. We will still be here when you have found a stable footing in your relationship and even if I have reservations about the man you are choosing, I have the utmost faith _in you_. Your future isn’t mine to decide. So do not let my actions change your mind.”

“He called you—”

“No worse than you have, I’m sure. No worse than I called him. It takes a great deal more to worry man than rude names. Go on, he seems too delicate to leave stewing for long.” Then she motioned at him, and went past him to investigate the dinner that he’d started. He went because he didn’t like the unfinished fight that was hanging at his shoulders, and Mother said, “thank you for dinner,” in the last minutes before he closed the door behind himself.

Altair was laying in the snow. He was flopped out in the middle of the yard with his sleeves pulled down over his hands and his arms crossed behind his head. There was snow all over his body from the slight drifting flurries that hadn’t stopped since that morning. When he looked up at Malik, he did not look repentant or even justified, but painfully neutral. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said.

Malik nodded his head. “I noticed.”

Then Altair sat up. He got back to his feet and dusted the snow off here and there before giving up the pretense and straightening up. “Have you forgiven me for prom night?” (What a thought, that all of this stemmed from that whole unfortunate mess.)

“No,” Malik said. There was no relief in saying it. “Yes? I believe that you are not now the person that you were then. I struggle with pinning a crime on you that I know—better than they do—” he motioned back at his house, “was committed out of a sense of stupidity and self-preservation. I know, even if they don’t, that what I did to myself in the aftermath wasn’t your fault. I made a choice to move away from it, but not a choice to forgive it.”

“Oh.” Altair pulled at the damp sleeves of his hoodie and then looked at him like he was expecting to get hit again. “I don’t want you to think I’m avoiding anything but I really don’t want to eat dinner with your Mother again.” The words were most definitely grown from ideas that Kadar put into his head. 

“You’re going through the house,” Malik said. Because the alternative was too cowardly to forgive. “I have to get the stuff I packed to take with me and you at least need to attempt to look like you’re afraid of her. Disappointment is hard to handle when it reflects something we know to be true. If you don’t want to be hurt by her disappointment, you have to work on whatever truth it’s reflecting. That’s how I survived.” But Altair didn’t look too convinced about it. Malik was (cold) and (hungry) so he said, “the sooner you get it over with the sooner we can go.”

“Fine,” Altair said. 

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Did you forgive any of them? For what they did?
> 
> There weren’t a lot of them that wanted to be forgiven.
> 
> I think, I could forgive Federico. I think he wants to be forgiven. The rest don’t care. Not really.
> 
> He was the worst
> 
> It’s not a competition. Federico mocked me for two straight years and Ezio stood next to him keeping his damn mouth shut, but it’s Federico who admitted he was wrong, who took the brunt of the burden of guilt from the public and the family. He’s the one that apologized to me. He’s the one that asked me what could be done to fix it. 
> 
> What has Ezio done? He helped you when you asked. He apologized to me. He looked at me with pity. He hung around a little while. He’s a good guy, I like him.
> 
> He doesn’t care if I forgive him or not. Federico understands I don’t have to forgive him, but does want me to and he’s willing to put work into it.
> 
> Mama Maria and Giovanni don’t seem to care either
> 
> They care now as much as they did then. 
> 
> Why do you ask?
> 
> Grandma didn’t believe in forgiveness. I don’t know anything about it
> 
> I’ve got to go. Thanks Desmond
> 
> Be patient, Altair. Don’t rush things.

Malik was either still angry (a possibility) or he was just giving Altair the room to pout for a while. Either way, he didn’t come looking for Altair (outside walking London) for nearly a half an hour. In that amount of time, he had managed to walk the dog, clean up after her and tuck her into the hood of his coat where she would stay warm before sitting down on a snow-dusted bench. The cold didn’t bother him as much as the unsettled feeling stuck in his chest. Malik found him and stood there in front of him with his hand shoved into his pocket. “If you can sit out here in the snow for forty minutes without moving, why is our hotel room as hot as the Sahara?”

“I don’t like being cold inside,” Altair said. He shifted on the seat and motioned to the spot next to him. Malik hesitated before sitting close enough their shoulders were touching. Altair tucked his phone back into his pocket and leaned into Malik’s body. 

“I shouldn’t have hit you,” Malik said. As if that were even truly worthy of note. “I can’t—I can’t have the expectation that you not solve problems through violence and then use it. I’m sorry. I won’t do it in the future.”

“I don’t care about that,” Altair said. “I’ve been smacked harder by Mrs. Finch.” He might have smiled but Malik looked so _sad_ when he said it. “I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do to prove that I’m sorry for what happened? I don’t know what else to do to prove I understand what I did.”

There was Malik’s sigh, soft and damp in the cold air. “Federico told me this, and it seems like he should have said it to you too. He said, don’t blame Altair for the things that his family does. I am not my family.”

“But you didn’t even—” Maybe it was stupid to expect that Malik would defend him. They seemed to be all in agreement that nothing that wasn’t true had been said. Altair just shrugged. “I didn’t expect to care that much, I guess. My own family doesn’t approve of me. It would be expecting too much to think someone else’s would—especially someone that raised you.”

Malik snorted at him. “When you do shit like that, nobody is going to defend you. I am _starting_ to understand that you’re being sincere when you say things like that. But it comes across as begging for pity. You got your feelings hurt, you didn’t like it, and you reacted poorly and in character. I reacted poorly too.”

“Why does everything have to be a condemnation with you? Why can’t I just be allowed to be upset that you’re supposed to be my boyfriend and your Mother tries to rip my throat out and you’re just—amused by it. Stop smiling.” 

The little smile that was trying not to grow across Malik’s face went flat again. But the amusement (terrible and out of place) was still bright in his eyes. Malik looked vaguely embarrassed to have been caught grinning. “I didn’t realize that you needed more from me—”

“Some sense that you don’t secretly agree with her would be great?”

“I don’t even know what she sa—wait the small minded parasite thing?” 

Altair nodded. “Any of it. They don’t even actually know me. Right? How can they know what I am?” The motion made London perk up from his hood and she crept around his shoulder and slid down his chest to rest against his hands. Her tiny body was too slim to tolerate the cold for very long. He pulled the zipper of his coat down and dropped her inside. 

“Your public actions? Your actions for the past twenty four hours don’t look good either. I will try to be more aware of when you need support but you can’t act like an asshole every time you decide that your feelings are hurt.” 

“What am I supposed to do, say ‘hey, Malik I feel like I was unfairly attacked by your Mother and I need a hug, so can you just wake up and hug me?’” He was expecting to be met with the same level of ridiculous understanding as it felt when he was saying it. Rather than laugh in agreement at the stupidity of it, Malik was just _staring_ at him. Like he didn’t even understand what Altair was trying to say. “What?” he asked.

“Yes,” Malik said. “I do want you to do that. In fact, if you’re leaving our bed and you’re not coming back, I want you to wake me up and tell me.”

“Ok,” Altair said. He picked at the seams on the insides of his pockets for a moment before turning his head to look at Malik. “I feel unfairly attacked by your family, I haven’t eaten except breakfast, I’m really cold and I feel like I might have ruined our relationship. I have no idea what I need.”

Malik smiled (at least). “Food, a blanket, and a kiss, I think.”

Altair smiled (and the world didn’t feel so terribly bleak). “In that order?”

Malik leaned in to kiss him. His lips were cool from the air but his breath was hot. The kiss was so brief, just a touch of lips, and the press of Malik’s forehead against his. He was too close to see distinctly but the pattern of his breathing was heaving a helpless kind of sigh. “Let’s go get something to eat? We can watch stupid movies and go to sleep and this stupid day will be over.”

“No tacos though,” Altair said. “I saw that place on the inside. Your brother probably has food poisoning.” He was hoping for a laugh but still surprised when he got one. Even more surprised when Malik kissed him. “The hotel probably has room service,” Altair said. “We can order something from that.” 

“Sounds good.” Then Malik stood up and tugged Altair up after him and toward the door.


	65. Chapter 65

> **Malik**
> 
> Are you sleeping?
> 
> No.
> 
> Me either
> 
> I know. I’m lying next to you. You move around a lot.
> 
> I can’t sleep.
> 
> Me either.
> 
> Want to get waffles?

Altair had considered stuffing London into his coat and taking her along and decided it was probably best if he left her at the hotel. Sitting in the slick, shiny vinyl bench across the unhappily tight booth across from Malik, listening to nothing but the drunk in the corner rambling about trains, he regretted the choice. At least if London were wrapped up in his coat, he’d have something entertaining to do.

Malik’s cheek was resting against his fist while he frowned down at the menu on the table. His hair was ruffled up and messy from the attempt to sleep and his face seemed shadowed-and-gray from exhaustion. Or the harsh overhead lights made his skin look washed-out and ill. After a minute, Malik heaved a sigh. “Do you know what you want?”

“Uh,” Altair looked over toward the shiny chrome of the kitchen and then back at the table. It was old (sure) but that didn’t necessarily mean that it wasn’t clean. He hadn’t even looked at the menu because he was trying to work through the unhappy feeling stuck in his chest. He only plucked his copy of the menu out of the holder at the end of the table when Malik asked and looked it over. “Do you eat bacon?”

“No,” Malik said.

“Do you care if I eat bacon?”

“Nope.”

Altair didn’t even necessarily like bacon. He turned the menu over twice before he set it down and pulled himself up from slouching to pick up his glass of water to take a drink. “I don’t know what I want. What’s good?”

“I don’t know, everything,” Malik said. Then he rolled his eyes and said, “I mean, everything that I’ve had. Obviously I haven’t had everything.”

The waitress (a lovely woman with a smoker’s voice and forty years of customer serviced etched into her smile) said, “so what’ll it be?”

“One of everything,” Altair said. He watched her face go from ‘pleased to take your order’ to ‘flat out disgusted with the youth of America’ so quickly that he couldn’t stop himself from laughing at the sight of it. Malik was pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers mumbling something low under his breath that either wasn’t meant to be heard or wasn’t actually _words_ before he dropped his hand to the table.

“You cannot just order one of everything,” he said. “That’s wasteful. You’re not going to _eat_ one of everything.”

“If I don’t eat it, we’ll just take it to your brother. He seems like he’d eat anything.” Then he looked back at the waitress who was glaring at him with one hand against her hip and the other hanging down at her side. Every part of her body seemed to insult him for having the audacity to play stupid tricks on her. “We would like one of everything.”

“What exactly does that mean, do you want one of everything including drinks and appetizers? One of all of the main dishes? Do you want one of every dessert too?” Malik was running his finger down the menu, picking out the individual options from the menu. 

“How were you planning to pay for that?” the waitress asked. 

Altair smiled and Malik sighed again. “I would like one of everything, including appetizers and desserts but excluding drinks. If you would feel better about serving me if I paid first I’d be happy to do so.” And then the woman (perhaps just to humiliate him) nodded her head and invited him to follower to the register. 

It took a good ten minutes to ring up one of everything and in that time she went from vaguely miffed to be brought in on this insanity, to actively angry about having to do it to outwardly furious. Malik got up and came over to stand next to him. “This is a waste of your money and their time,” he said quietly.

“I probably pay more for less food at any other restaurant that I’ve ever been to,” Altair countered. He reached into his back pocket to pull out his wallet while Malik glared at him. “Look, if you’re going to get pissy every time I spend money on something this isn’t going to work. Do you know how much money I make in a month?”

“Do you even _make_ that money? Does the word ‘make’ mean that you put effort into generating wealth rather than having it given to you?” It hadn’t occurred to Altair (before) that Malik had no concept of how Altair’s wealth was amassed, what he did to earn it or how it came to add itself into his bank account. The fact that he was enormously wealthy was well-known but the assumption that he had done nothing in all his life to contribute to it was offensive. 

“I get two allowances every year. One that pays for my living expenses—that’s anywhere that I choose to live and the maintenance of that place. I bought a building when I was sixteen using the unused portion of previous year’s allowances and I have income from the rent on that building. So I don’t actually use most of my living expenses allowance. I also get a general allowance that comes in monthly allotments that is supposed to pay for my daily life—clothes, shoes, education, entertainment. I use a fraction of that. The money that I don’t use is divided three ways, a portion goes to saving, one goes to a charity fund, and one is invested. In turn, my investments provide me with income that is entirely my own rather than just given to me. It’s not exactly working but it does take some brain work.”

Malik looked thoughtful with narrowed eyes but he didn’t look convinced. “Do you do the brain work?”

“I consult men that are more familiar with the markets before I research where I want to put my money. I also research the foundations that I plan on making contributions to. I mean, it’s not a lot of work but it is some work.” Altair shrugged.

The waitress interrupted their conversation by clearing her throat. “The total is on the screen.” 

Altair pulled his card out of his wallet and handed it to her without glancing at the screen. Malik did look at it and was horrified by the total. (Which honestly could have been anything above five dollars for all Altair knew.) 

“I need to see your ID as well,” the woman said.

He took his ID out of his wallet and held it out to her. She took it from him, compared it to the name on the card with a confused twitch to her eyebrows before looking up at him and then at Malik and then back at the cards. She handed it back to him and opened her mouth like she was going to ask something and then stopped. She swiped his card and didn’t seem surprised to see that it worked and then handed the card to him and gave him the receipt to sign.

“Yes,” Altair said to her continued bafflement. “I’m the guy from the magazines, the tabloid TV shows and whatever morning talk show you watch.”

“The one with the petition,” she said. “Ezio’s cousin?”

Altair nodded. He scribbled his name on the bottom of the receipt and gave her a hundred percent tip on the total. He slid the paper back across to her and handed her back the pen while she stared at Malik with far more blank but bemused concentration than Malik was necessarily comfortable with. “I’m really hungry,” he said.

“Right,” she said. “I’ll just go put your order in.” 

Back at their table, Malik made faces at his menu, until all at once he looked up and said, “when are we going to tell people?”

Altair shrugged. “The video is probably ready, so we can just post it whenever you want. Do you want to tell people?” He wasn’t concerned about when to tell the world because it didn’t matter when he hadn’t managed to have a secret his whole life. 

Rather than answer, Malik just shrugged. “I don’t know. I think I forgot that the whole world was still waiting to know who I was. I can’t—”

He was interrupted by the sudden arrival of three plates of appetizers. The waitress set them on the table while the drunk guy in the corner looked lustfully at the steam rising off the dishes. “That was fast,” Altair said. 

“They started making your order when I put it in the computer,” the waitress said. Then she dusted her hands on her apron and stood there a moment, leaning toward Altair’s side of the booth, looking at Malik in that same way she had before. It was clear she was trying to work out what to make of him. “Can I get you anything else?” she asked.

Malik sat back against the seat back and looked right back at the woman. Rather than hold his stare, she turned her head to look at Altair. He shook his head and she went away with a friendly pat on his shoulder. When she was gone, Malik rolled his eyes.

Altair laughed at him. “Haven’t you been here before?”

“Yes,” Malik said. “That doesn’t mean she knows who I am. In the real world, getting recognized is a lot less common an occurrence than I imagine you think it is.” He picked up one of the cheesy potato wedges and flicked off a bit of bacon that was stuck in the cheese before blowing on it and sticking it into his mouth. They ate through their appetizers in little bites, trying one and comparing which they liked best. It was small-talk-with-strangers. 

The waitress came back with the next set of plates and a stack of to-go boxes. She took the empty plates (after they dumped the leftovers into the boxes) and hovered just a minute to stare at Malik. It went like that, comparing dishes back-and-forth, sharing the same stack of pancakes and eggs over and over until they’d sampled their way through the whole table. (They discarded some banana nut monstrosity based solely on the idea that Kadar wouldn’t eat it as he hated bananas.) 

Every time the waitress came she hovered and stared, until finally, Altair said, “it would be less rude if you just asked.” He had syrup on his lips when he said it so he was licking that off when the waitress looked at him. Her cheeks went all red at being caught. “Staring is rude,” he said.

“You’re right,” the waitress said, then she looked at Malik and said, “I’m sorry.” But it didn’t stop her from saying, “I have to ask because there’s this girl, Tiffany that works the day shift and she nagged everyone to sign that petition—are you Sass?”

Malik stared back at her like he was working out the pros-and-cons of how to answer the question behind his face. His expression went neutral and then dour, settled into a low-level kind of angry at his own indecision before he managed to say, “yes. I am.”

Then the waitress let out a breath, “well God bless, I guess. I hope it works out for you.” Then she was heading toward the kitchen with a fast-fast shuffle like she had to tell everyone or die in the attempt. Altair picked up a strip of bacon off one of the plates and chewed on it while they watched her go.

“She is going to be telling this story for years,” Altair said.

Malik snorted. “This asshole came to the diner at three am with his boyfriend and ordered one of everything on the menu. What a great story.” He dunked a piece of pancake in strawberry syrup and stuck it in his mouth. While he chewed on it, he sighed again. “I can’t tell if I’m angry or I’m tired.”

“I’m both,” Altair said. “Not _exactly_ how I thought this whole thing would go when we finally met. I don’t know why because all we’ve ever done is fight.” He picked up a triangle of toast and nibbled on a dry edge of it before saying, “to be perfectly honest, I thought there’d be a lot more sex.”

“We can’t even manage a twenty four hour period without yelling at one another, what the fuck would sex do to help? Sex is—useless. If you think fucking is going to help then sure, let’s go find a bed and fuck. We can order a pizza in and really do it right.” More confusing than the venomous way Malik spat every word at him was the agitation that made him straighten up his body and the way his hand moved through the air erasing every word as soon as it was finished. “I— Do you think it would help?”

It wouldn’t hurt. “I don’t know,” Altair said. “I’ve never had sex with the same person twice, really. I mean, I have but one of them was a pop princess that I was dating because they told me to and the other was a lesbian who just used me for oral sex. I don’t _want_ to fight with you. I mean—I do, I like fighting with you, but I thought there’d be actual fun involved.”

Malik snorted again. Then he licked his lips, “when is your cousin’s wedding?”

“May,” Altair said. “Why?”

“So it’s March—uh,” Malik looked at his phone. “Nineteenth. That’s a month and a half that neither of us have anywhere to be.” He tucked his phone back into his pocket, arching up to push it into his front pants pocket and then sitting back in the seat. “Right?”

“Yes,” Altair said. “Why? Think we should just run away from home?”

Malik nodded. “Yes.”

Oh. “Ok,” Altair said. He nodded. “Yeah. Anywhere you had in mind?”

“No. I don’t care. Anywhere that isn’t full of your family or mine. I won’t even bitch about whatever money is spent.” And Altair laughed at that compromise; Malik smiled at him. “I mean, if you want to spend money.” He even managed to sound vaguely embarrassed by the statement. “Stop smiling at me.”

“I’m sorry. I will never do it again.” He flattened his expression into a neutral sort of scowl. But then nodded. “Sure.” He may have said more but the waitress was back with another three dishes. “As soon as we finish with this.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Left you some food
> 
> It’s payment for you watching the cats for a few weeks.
> 
> Is this what Christmas feels like?
> 
> A MAGICAL WAFFLE SANTA HAS GIVEN ME FOOD.
> 
> Ok, have fun. Put yourself out of your misery, let the handsome man fuck you.

Malik woke up on the couch of some hotel room, in a city he couldn’t recall the name of, still wearing his coat. His bag was on the floor next to him, clearly dropped where it landed. His laptop was safely set on a table (thank god for that) but he had no idea where his phone was. One of his shoes was still on his foot and the other one was on the floor. When he sat up, every part of his body ached for having been abused in such a careless fashion. 

“Where are you?” he shouted through the hotel suite. There was a set of double doors that seemed to lead to the bedroom (at least he assumed). When he pulled one of the doors open, London came running out, yapping and jumping in excitement for the prospect of freedom. Altair was growling in aggravation, stripped down to his underclothes, laying on his stomach on the bed with his back flexing as he tightened his hands on the pillow under his face and lifted himself up far enough to look over at the door. “How’d you make it to the bed?”

“I have been travelling since I was born. I can find a bed even when jet-lagged to an extreme.” Then he rolled onto his back and yanked a corner of the blanket up over his lap as he yawned and dug his phone out of the pile of pillows at his side. He squinted at the screen. “Why are we awake?” Then he flopped back on the bed and rubbed his face. “I’m getting so old.”

He certainly looked old, spread out on the bed, mostly naked, all tanned from laying around in the tropical sun with his pirate-cousin. The blanket he’d dragged over his lap did almost nothing to hide the fact that he had an erection and Malik’s brain had stopped working somewhere between Altair’s belly button (set perfectly into his stupidly amazing belly) and the top of his boxers. He was contemplating that trail of hair (the same kind of fuzzy-brown color as the hair on his head) against the resolve to make something useful out of their relationship before they fucked. “You need to take your dog out,” he said rather than climbing onto the bed, yanking the blanket out of the way and stripping Altair out of what little clothes he still wore. “I’m going to take a shower.”

“Can we go back to sleep after that?”

“After we eat something,” Malik said on his way to the shower. “What time is it?”

“Three fifty six!” Altair shouted. He was rolling out of bed, standing there with his back turned to Malik as he stretches his arms over his head and Malik just barely managed not to make an audible sound at the sight of it.

\--

guyfawkes23: we are now aware that the petition has reached its full 2 million signatures and then some, at what point will we be allowed to know @sass-badger’s identity? (51 mins ago)

They found the art gallery by accident. It was part of a walking mall of little shops that seemed to cater to the especially bored or the out-of-towner sorts. It was next to the coffee shop that they stopped at to get something hot to drink after walking a mile in the dreary-gray cold to find somewhere near the hotel that served food. Altair didn’t especially like coffee but it was hot and he was cold enough it didn’t matter what he was drinking as long as it did something to warm him up. London was riding in his hood (after some arguments with Malik about whether or not they should even take the dog).

“You like art?” Malik asked when Altair stopped him at the door of the gallery. The very tone of every word was _incredulous_ with disbelief. The sort of tone that implied it couldn’t have been believed even if it were witnessed. “Really? I mean I know that you draw but I didn’t know that you…uh, appreciated art?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Altair opened the door for him and Malik tightened his grip around the coffee in his hand and shrugged as he stepped inside. The gallery was the sort of thing that catered to local artists, clearly run-down since it was opened, the lighting was only truly impressive part of it. There was a bored looking woman sitting behind a desk at the front of the gallery that looked up only long enough to sigh at yet another set of tourists. “Is there a fee for admission?”

“No. But you can’t have the drinks in here. Leave them on the desk and pick them up on your way out.” She motioned toward the edge of the desk and then went back to looking at something on her laptop. 

Malik waited until they were farther into the gallery, standing in front of a lovely (if a bit dull) landscape painting before he said, “you don’t seem like the sort of guy that likes art.” He said it very quietly. “You never mentioned it.”

Altair shrugged. “Grandma used to take me to art galleries all over the world. I remember going to the Louvre when I was four or five. She would sit with me in her lap, whispering into my ear about the paintings on the walls, about the artists that painted them. And she would ask me what I felt when I looked at them.” He left the (dull) landscape and moved down the line, pausing at one and then the next. “I don’t go as much as I would like anymore. At first it was because I missed her.”

“What about now?” Malik asked. He was standing close enough to Altair’s side the heat of his body was a warm cloud. His attention was less on the moody grayscale portrait of the little boy and more on Altair’s face. 

“I don’t know. But I love art. Leonardo is an amazing artist. I looked him up—um, after we had the fight, after I found out you were a man, after he punched me in the kidney. I looked him up recently.” London was moving in his hood, stirred awake by the unusual smell of wood-polish and recycled air caught in the gallery. She scratched at the back of his neck and whimpered at him before he reached back to lift her out of the hood and held her against his chest. “Anyway, he is very good. His art is—alive? Insightful?”

Malik coughed a bitter sounding laugh, caught between amused and embarrassed. He said, “I don’t even know what his art looks like. I never cared about it? He never showed it to me. I only ever saw all the pictures he drew of me. He said he was—documenting something I’d want to see for myself later. I don’t know what the hell that meant but he drew a lot of pictures of me, especially after the accident.”

“Ezio said he had a sketch book full of pictures of the same guy.” Jealousy was a funny taste in his mouth but it was a hollow sensation in his body. He wasn’t jealous that Leonardo had sex with Malik but that he’d been there, all that time, that he’d seen Malik in hundreds of different ways and had the chance to trace the lines of his face and his body. Altair shrugged, “Ezio thought you were his competition.”

That made Malik smile. “Well, I’m not competition but Ezio still isn’t going to win. Leonardo doesn’t want to be in love with anyone. He didn’t even before me and he really doesn’t want to be now.”

“I don’t think Ezio cares,” Altair said. They kept moving down the line of pictures, paused at a sculpture that confused Malik (if his face was any indication of his ability to understand what he saw) and then went into a smaller room displaying the artwork of local kids (who won some contest, it seemed). “Ezio loves to love people. He gets caught up in the idea of it. He’ll settle down soon.” They circled through the whole gallery, trading comments about the colors and the subject of the painting. Malik was shifting on his feet with boredom and there was very little that Altair saw that was worth sticking around for. They picked up their cups on the way out of the door and the woman at the desk growled in aggravation when she saw the dog. 

Malik was grinning when they went outside. “She hates you,” he said. “That’s impressive. Alright, so there has to be somewhere to eat. I can smell food.”

“Let your nose guide us,” Altair said. They walked another mile or so before they found somewhere to order food from. “Do you want to go back to the hotel to eat?” Altair asked once they had the food in to-go boxes nestled in bags that were gathering steam and condensation from the cold. Malik considered it for five-and-a-half seconds before he motioned at a bench not so far away. They sat huddled together, eating hunched over white foam boxes while London complained from where she was wedged into the front of his coat. 

Malik was smiling, scraping his spoon across the edge of the box held in place by Altair’s, he looked up from trying to get the very last of the mixed vegetables to say, “how am I doing on learning to date?” It was apropos of nothing, pulled out of somewhere inside of Malik’s head. 

Altair only vaguely remembered the conversation about how to date well enough to say, “well you’re not drowning out the sound of me talking with nachos but we still need to improve your choice of destination. This place is a little cold.” He smiled at Malik’s laugh and still wasn’t prepared for Malik to lean forward and kiss him. It wasn’t much of anything, just the fond press of lips against his to cap off the laughter. Altair licked the taste off his lips and wrinkled up his nose. “That is way too much pepper.”

“Maybe. Finish eating, I’m freezing.” 

Altair motioned toward the trash can. “We can order something at the hotel. This is cold already anyway.” They chucked their trash and headed back to the hotel, walking as fast as they could manage to get out of the cold.

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Why did Leonardo fall in love with me? I’m not asking because I don’t have self-esteem
> 
> Why did he ruin it?
> 
> I trusted him.
> 
> He’s still your friend.
> 
> That’s naïve. He’s not. Not in the way that he was
> 
> Why do you bring this up today?
> 
> Because, I need the friend he used to be
> 
> Malik. He is still that friend if you let him be.
> 
> He’s not the only one that acted selfishly in the past.
> 
> It’s time to get over it if you want your friend back.
> 
> Why would he want me back? I didn’t chose him.
> 
> I cannot explain the concept of friendship to you while you are feeling sorry for yourself.
> 
> Leonardo is still your friend. He sincerely loves you in a way that can’t be undone just because you rebuffed his romantic notions. He doesn’t want romantic notions. He does want a friend.

They woke up at five in the morning (because they fell asleep like idiots somewhere around nine, stumbling like zombies from the buffet of food and the drone of the TV playing some action movie, to bed). Altair stretched on his side the bed, a lazy lengthening of his body before he pulled back in to a curl and said, “morning.” He couldn’t even manage to keep his eyes convincingly open when he said it.

“Morning,” Malik said. He might have said something else but London chose that moment to jump over Altair’s body and land in Malik’s face. She pressed her paws to his cheek and wiggled her tail in a way he was figuring out meant she expected to be carried to a choice plot of grass. “Fine,” he said to the dog. “I’m taking her out. You need to get up.”

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Altair mumbled at him.

Malik got dressed only as far as was necessary to take the dog outside. He stood outside with her for the ten minutes that Altair assured him was the necessary allotment of time for her to finish doing everything she needed to do. He kept the leash looped around his wrist while he sent texts to Sofia (expecting her to be asleep) and then stood in the cold an extra two-or-three minutes contemplating messaging Leonardo.

Indecision followed him through the lobby (he stopped only long enough to get a cup of coffee off the espresso bar) all the way up in the elevator to the room. Altair was awake and shower-damp, wearing a towel (and _nothing_ else) while he bent at the waist, rifling through his bag. “I am up,” he said. He threw a towel over his shoulder and dug around in the bag until he found a pair of his underwear and held that in his fist as he straightened up to look at him. It only took him a second to reach a level of unacceptable smugness. He tipped his shoulders back and pushed his hips forward, lengthened the lines of his torso to accentuate _everything_. 

“Go get dressed,” Malik said before his body could start making choices for him. “Are we still taking London to Desmond?”

“Yes,” Altair said. “As soon as I have clothes on and we’ve found something to eat.”

“There’s breakfast downstairs,” Malik said. Then he pointedly ignored Altair’s slow shuffle out of the room in favor of shoving his own clothes back into his bag. London was happy enough to play with one of his socks while he worked and Malik was happy to let her do it as long as she stayed out of the way.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> I need you to take London for me
> 
> Why?
> 
> Because I keep having to leave her in hotel rooms
> 
> I feel like I missed something.
> 
> Fine, bring her here. You know Lucy loves her.

It was afternoon before they made it back to New York. Malik was frowning in the car, rubbing at his left shoulder and refusing to admit that it was bothering him at all. Altair let him deny it because there was no point in arguing about it in a car. (Instead, they argued about whether Altair would be publicly considered a bisexual or if he would simply be gay as soon as the news broke that he was dating a man. The most interesting part of that argument was learning that Malik had never actually seen a naked woman in person and that he was perfectly happy to never see one.)

Altair made them lunch while Malik checked his blog and twitter (meaning he frowned at his computer and made noises that ranged from vaguely amused to actively disgusted). When they were sitting on opposite sides of the table, chewing their way through his (delicious) attempt at cooking, Altair said, “what happened with your shoulder?”

“I told you that it’s nothing,” Malik said.

That was a stupid lie. “Even if I weren’t a genius, you couldn’t possibly think I am stupid enough to believe that. You’ve been rubbing it or pulling at it all day. Do you need a massage? Heat? Cold? That—cream stuff that people put on their backs when they hurt?”

“Why can’t you just let this go?”

“Because it’s a legitimate concern that I have for you well-being,” Altair said. He kept his voice even though he didn’t feel very even at all. (Rather, he felt _annoyed_ that he had to argue whether or not he cared about Malik being in pain or experiencing discomfort of some kind.) “Why are you being so difficult?”

Malik was glaring at him. When he spoke it sounded like every word was being pulled out of his lungs. “I slept wrong, my shoulder hurts. It’s not the first time it’s happened. I will be fine. Usually, Kadar rubs it and it feels better.”

Of course Kadar was allowed to help. Altair chewed the thought over while he finished eating and when his lunch was nothing but little crumbs on his plate, he sat back in the chair and wiped his mouth with a napkin before he said, “could I try? Is there a specific technique that works? _Don’t_ look at me like that. I’m not going to try to jump you. I am offering because I don’t like you being in pain.”

“How many times have you had to watch me be in pain,” Malik countered. His whole demeanor offered disbelief with a wry smirk at the edge as if Altair were being oh-so-tragically ridiculous. Then he dropped the last of his sandwich on the plate and wiped his mouth with his own napkin. When his body leaned back against the seat, his feet moved across the floor under the table and he waited with his eyebrows raised inviting Altair to try to prove him wrong.

“Pretty continuously for about five months last year,” Altair said. He shrugged. “I don’t think most of that was physical though. You didn’t want me to help you then either.”

If Malik was amused by him at the start, he was angry all flat-lipped-grim-frown. “You’re so _fucking_ annoying. Is it possible for you to say something with making it sound like you have it so hard? Even when you have a point, the way you say it—nobody has pity for you. You have everything that normal people want.”

“You know what,” Altair said. He threw the napkin on the table. “Fuck it. I don’t care. Be in pain, Malik. It’s obviously what you want.” Then he got up out of his chair (with more civility than he felt) and pushed it up to the table (without smacking it around). He was heading to leave the room and Malik made a huffing noise as he kicked his chair back. His footsteps followed Altair out to the living room before his hand caught him by the elbow and pulled him to a halt. “You know, you have to stop doing that,” Altair snapped at him. His hands were tightening into fists because his body had an _automatic_ , _instinctual_ reaction to being pulled on. 

“You need to stop walking away.” Malik pulled his hand back, looked down at Altair’s fists and then back at his face. The anger that was just a vague shadow on his face tightened into a pinch, settling in the center of his face. “You can’t just leave every time you hear something that you don’t like.”

“What is the point in talking?” Altair said. He shrugged, spread his arms and forced his hands to loosen up. “I can’t say anything that’s good enough for you. I can’t say anything that isn’t _asking for pity_. You know what, fuck you. I don’t even understand what you think happened last year! It’s like you can’t understand anything that you didn’t see because I’ve been _in love with you_ much longer than you’ve seemed to care and that’s not asking for pity, you self-centered little dick. _You knew_ that I loved you, you _knew_ that I wanted to see you and you didn’t fucking _care_ about that as much as you cared about yourself. I _can’t_ even be _angry_ at you about it because I _hurt you_ first and it was all my fucking fault in the first place. But you were _hurt_ , do you understand? I couldn’t do anything. Your fucking brother said, ‘this is what happened and Sass needs you but stay away’. So I _did_. But I can’t tell you that because it’s just me _asking for pity_.” He motioned at Malik’s whole body (the cold, detached blankness on his face), “and you’re the one that tells me that I’m supposed to tell you what I need. _You’re_ the one that was bitching at me for months about how I can’t solve my problems without violence and I need to talk. You don’t even _listen_ when I do! I don’t _want_ your fucking pity.”

“You’re not talking! You’re just whining!” Malik shouted at him. “Oh poor me, I got my feelings hurt by your Mom so I called her names. Oh poor me, I didn’t get what I wanted. Oh poor me, I had to respect your wishes.”

“Fuck. You,” Altair said. There were his hands, curled up into fists again, there were his shoulders getting heavy and high. There was his breath and his heart regulating themselves to a dead crawl as the anger went through him like a living-fucking-thing. He was staring at Malik’s face, watching each of the little observations filter through his face. 

Malik wasn’t afraid of him (oh-and-that was _hilarious_ , the arrogance of that). Rather than say anything he rolled his eyes as he shifted his weight back. It was the sort of gesture that was accompanied by someone crossing their arms. Rather than doing that, Malik put his hand on his hip. “Are you going to hit me now?”

Yes. (Yes.) _Yes_ , with every last fiber in his body in sudden agreement that it was the _only_ possible way to feel better. Altair owed it to him (sure he did), just one good slap across the face to echo the one from the kitchen a few days ago. His teeth were clenched so tight together that he couldn’t force them open. Malik just kept looking at him, leaning away with his head tipped up. His stupid face was so _certain_ that he was right. So absolutely _sure_ of it that there was no _point_ in doing anything but proving him right. 

“You think you’re better than me,” Altair said. Because it wasn’t a _question_. “You have since you met me at that stupid prom. I don’t remember all of it but I remember the way you looked at me like I was _trash_ to you. I was an easy scapegoat for all the things you hate about yourself because you have the misconception that wealth and popularity means I _deserve_ the sort of shit that you wrote about me. You’ve built yourself a fucking throne to sit on when you look at me because I’m so _wrong_ about everything that I think or I do. I don’t even know how we ended up _here_ , Malik because you’ve spent two fucking years telling me everything I’ve done wrong. I don’t know _why_ I love you, I don’t know _why_. Do you understand that? Can you _see_ that? You _agree_ with your Mother—that’s why you didn’t defend me. You think she’s _right_ , that’s why you hit me. Why are you here? Because I can’t figure it out! You want to fuck me, that’s fine, let’s do it because I can’t wrap my head around this, I can’t _imagine_ why else you’re here.”

“Fuck you,” Malik said. And it was so, so quiet. His face was pink all across his cheeks and red around his eyes, he looked sideways but _not_ at Altair. His jaw was tight as his teeth pressed together. 

“Please _do_ ,” Altair snapped at him. “At least that would make putting up with you worth it.” If he weren’t so angry, he could have predicted what was about to happen next because it was like following a script. Malik smacked him across the face. 

There was absolutely no thought in his head when he slapped him back. The reaction was so _purely_ instinctual that he wasn’t even aware he was going to do it before the sound of his hand connecting to Malik’s face was echoing back into his ears. There was no righteousness in it, nothing at all but reactive _hurt_. 

Malik stood very still for a moment, his head tipped to the side as his cheek blossomed up red from the impact. When he straightened again, he started stripping his shirt off. The flush on his face was going down his neck, across his shoulders. The scars on his left side seemed all the much more noticeable with the heated flush of his skin. 

“Malik,” Altair said.

“This is your only fucking chance,” Malik said to him. He threw his shirt(s) on the floor, stepped on the end of it and used the leverage to pull that off his right wrist. The effort popped the button and let the shirt fall off his arm. He was breathing hard with one hand pulling at his belt. “You’ll finally know what you were missing out on. And it’s good, Altair. Ten out of ten, so I’ve been told.”

“Stop,” Altair said. He reached out to grab Malik by the shoulder to stop him before he could get his belt undone and Malik shouted at him with a long-sound of _frustration_ and shoved his forearm against Altair’s chest to push him away. “God damn it,” Altair said again. As soon as he was pushed back, Malik was yanking his belt out of the loops and throwing it on the ground too. “Stop it!”

“Why?” Malik shouted back. “It’s what you want! That’s all I’m good fo—” 

It wasn’t anger that made his face hot and it wasn’t _anger_ that made his gut tighten. It wasn’t _anger_ that boiled into his throat until it _ached_. There was no anger in the watery-sound of his words when shook his head, “fuck yourself,” he said. “I can’t do this.” His whole face was _hot_ and every part of him was heavy. He motioned his hand toward the kitchen or the door, and then let it fall against his lap. “I—can’t,” he said again. 

Because he _couldn’t_. He swallowed back the wet, stinging pain in his throat and nodded his head. He rubbed at the dampness that was caught on his cheek and sniffled because his nose was suddenly full of liquid snot. He licked his lips and tried to figure out what to say—something about how Malik was welcome to stay or leave, how he’d make sure that Malik made it safely back to his house. How he _was_ sorry and nothing could make it past the growing thickness in his throat. So he just stood there with tears on his face and his hand caught in mid-motion while he tried to make sense of the spiraling helplessness that was dragging him down.

Malik made a noise that was all _pain_ and he stepped forward with his hand out to touch him. Altair stepped backward, put his hands up to hold him off and shook his head. “I _can’t_ ,” he said. Like maybe he could pour everything into those words and make them _make sense_ in a way Malik could really understand.

But Malik’s face was pink-and-spotted, his eyes were glossy from too much water in them. His bare shoulders were slumping down. “I’m sorry,” he said. Oh-so-very-wounded. “Altair, I’m _sorry_.” 

“I’m going to go,” Altair said. Because if he was going to cry like a stupid baby, he was going to do it somewhere Malik didn’t get to watch. He nodded his head and took a step toward the door. Malik turned with him, caught himself from grabbing Altair by the arm (at the very last minute).

“Come back though,” Malik said. “Please?”

Sure, yeah. Altair nodded (maybe).

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> I feel you need to know I love you
> 
> That’s very sweet of you. I love you too.
> 
> What happened?
> 
> Impatient children hurt each other’s feelings
> 
> Ah. Well, be nice.

Desmond heard Altair come in and expected that he would either be bringing the dog or Malik with him. As such he did not immediately get up from his video games to see. Either circumstance would lead Altair to him. So when he was not interrupted by the arrival of Altair (and company) he found the nearest save point. “Where are you?” he shouted.

Altair was, in fact, in the kitchen. He was sitting at the table with his hands over his face and his whole body slumped in a depressing shape, held up only by his elbows set against the table. When he heard Desmond come into the room, he looked up and smiled in a way that did nothing to undermine the unhappiness pinkness of his face. “I don’t know what I’m doing.” Every word was cut out of his throat, each of them halting on the verge of tears. Then he shrugged like it didn’t matter. 

“What happened?”

Then Altair shrugged and sighed. “I don’t know.” But then, again, in the very next second, “I ask for too much pity. I’m not _sorry_ enough for the things that I did. I don’t _know_ what happened.” 

Desmond pulled out a chair and sat down. “Do you want to try to tell me?” And as soon as he asked the whole miserable story came pouring out of him. Starting days-ago-with Malik’s Mother calling him names, on and on until the moment that he got to Desmond’s door. His face was a mess of mixed emotions, latent anger and renewed unhappiness that covered his cheeks with a glossy pink glow. When it was done and Altair was sniffling (still, again), Desmond said, “I think you need to go back. This isn’t a criticism. Grandmother raised you to be as outwardly emotionless as she was. If you want a chance with Malik, you have to put some faith in him that he wouldn’t intentionally hurt you. You have to be willing to show him that you’re not the stone front you put on for the press. If he doesn’t understand what you’re saying, you have to be calm and consistent about making yourself understood. But most importantly, you need to go back because he deserves to see how you feel now.”

“I don’t want to,” Altair said.

“You don’t have to,” Desmond said. “But it would help. You two walked into this with too much expectation. You’re still strangers face to face. You can’t just ignore that.”

Altair sniffled again. “Yeah but I hit him.”

“Fuck him,” Desmond said, “he hit you.”

Altair smiled and then sniffled again. He shook his head. “This is a fucking mess.” He licked his lips and shrugged. When he sighed, it came out like a shudder, spreading through his body all shivering-and-quaking before settling into place. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I just fucked up
> 
> Well that’s unsurprising.
> 
> This seems like a phone call sort of conversation.

And at the end of it, relaying the whole disaster from the moment he showed up at Altair’s and was accosted by his extended family’s chauvinistic view of the world all the way up to the moment Altair closed the door behind him, Malik was pacing around the couch with an agitation in his bones that couldn’t settle into something even vaguely approaching peace. 

Leonardo, on the other end of the line, must have been coiled up into a chair, resting his chin on his knees and listening with that total focus that made his face go curiously blank. But he let out the softest sigh that he had ever uttered, “you’re actually the stupidest man that I’ve ever met.” There was no humor in his voice when he said it, “not only have you denied _yourself_ the singular comfort that would put all of your stupid worries to sleep, you have used it as a weapon against a man who loves you so desperately he’s fully willing to take the blame for every mistake either of you have ever made. Not only have you allowed him to take this blame but you have actively allowed other people to put the blame on him and done nothing to reassure him it’s not accurate. I don’t _like_ Altair, Malik. I’ve still treated him with more kindness than you have. At what point are you going to be held accountable for the things that you’ve done?”

“I am,” Malik said.

“Because his family has called you out on it? Because he has anyone that’s close to as violently protective of him as your Mother is of you? He has a Kadar somewhere to lay it out for you? You’ve been constantly, continuously reminded of your mistakes and your cruelties at every turn?”

Malik bit his lips and shrugged at the phone (even if it couldn’t see him). Leonardo cleared his throat in that way that meant he was disappointed but he wouldn’t admit it outright. The sort of sound that accompanied the look of sad embarrassment he offered Malik when he was at his cruelest. “I don’t want him to decide he doesn’t want me anymore.”

Then Leonardo actually growled into the phone. “No, you’d much rather let circumstance and denial get rid of him for you. You chose him out of everyone. The least you can do is act like it.”

The door opened behind him and Malik said, “I’ve got to go,” and hung up before Leonardo could respond. He tucked the phone into his back pocket (of his unbuttoned pants) and walked a few steps to the side so he could see Altair (still looking miserable and _hurt_ ). “Hi,” he said.

Altair snorted. “I think we should talk. Kitchen?”

“Yeah,” Malik agreed. They went back to the places where they’d been sitting on opposite sides of the table and Altair picked at the balled up napkin he’d left before while Malik tried not to fidget. The silence stretched until it was taut enough to snap. Guilt (more than regret) was heavy as stones in his gut. “Altair, I’m sorry. I never meant for you to feel—like I didn’t love you. I was stupid. I didn’t care enough about what you were saying when you tried to talk to me.”

Altair shrugged, he licked the corner of his mouth and pushed his hand flat on the table. “I feel like I won’t ever be anything but some jerk that hurt you. Not to you, not to your family, not to anyone. I feel like, all of my mistakes will define me regardless of my actions or what I say. But I don’t feel like the same standard is true for you. If I can never be anything but the man that fucked some—kid at a prom and left him, if I can’t ever be anything but an idiot that called a stranger names on the internet, what reason do you have beside physical attraction to even be here?”

“It’s not you,” Malik said. “I hated myself, Altair. I don’t know if you can ever understand how badly I hated myself. I don’t think my Mother understood it.” That hurt, a little, somewhere in the center of his head where he kept his disappointments about life. That Mother hadn’t seen him drowning when it mattered more. “The people in my family that blame you for what happened, for how I treated myself are wrong. You were _never_ the cause. I needed someone that I could hate as much as I hated myself and you were so easy.” There was a flinch in Altair’s face, a brief lifting of his lips in a sneering-smile that was absolutely heartbreaking. “But it wasn’t about you until you found me. You were just a face, just someone with a name and an internet history that I could pull apart in my own impotent rage. I do understand that you loved me longer than I acknowledged. I _couldn’t_ comprehend the reason why. That’s not your fault either.”

“My Grandmother was probably a psychopath, Malik. You didn’t read that on the internet because she was very careful never to let the notion escape her. But she could devastate entire families—not corporations, not business rivals, not anyone that she stood to gain from the death of—but families. If I came to her and I said, George called me fat today. By the end of the week, his family would be in a gutter, he would be in foster care. His entire life would be destroyed.” Altair shrugged. “The Auditores—” he shrugged again. “I’m a baby that will never grow up. No matter what I do; I will always be a joke. _You_ , for the most part, were not mean to me without reason. I thought that you took the time to explain why you were disappointed in me. You took the time to make note of the changes I made. I thought you—could see that I didn’t want to be the monster that my family raised me to be.” Then he shifted in his chair, leaned forward to put his elbows on the table. “I’ve been on my own since I was sixteen. When I say to you that I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t want your pity. I _don’t know_ what I’m doing. I do know that I love you.” There again he licked his lips. “I love you because, you never quit. Not ever—not even for a minute—you’re infuriatingly persistent. You’re accidentally funny. You’re viciously loyal. You’re _fair_. I love you because you have the strength to overcome things in your own life that are _cruel_ , and you have the strength to push and shove at anyone around you that you think has gone stagnant. I love your stupid, mean mouth. I love your body. But you’ve made me feel like none of that matters, because I’ll never be worthy of you.”

Well. 

Malik nodded. “I’m sorry. It was never about you being worthy. It was always about me being scared.” That didn’t seem like enough, it didn’t seem like a fair compensation for how upset Altair had been before. 

Altair was picking at the napkin again, staring at it more than at him until he let out a disgruntled sigh of the utmost obligatory distaste before he said, “I don’t like that you told me I need to tell you how I feel but when I was trying to do that, you hit me. I don’t mean today.”

Removed of the immediacy of having his mother insulted for things that everyone expected of her, removed of the marinating sense of failure that was following him in-and-out of every day since he got close enough to Altair to touch him (but didn’t), he couldn’t pinpoint exactly the reason that he felt right in slapping Altair. He hadn’t ever hit anyone in his life (except those boys that tried to force-feed Kadar ham, maybe). “In the future, you shouldn’t open with the words ‘I called your Mother a bitch’.”

“Kadar told me to tell you.”

“Well Kadar is an asshole.” Then Malik sighed. 

Altair smiled (a little, at least). “Well now I know.” But then, “want to go get—a cookie? There’s this place that makes really great cookies.” 

“Sure,” Malik said. “Are you okay?”

“I feel like shit but I don’t feel like I’m being crushed by shit. I don’t know if that’s an improvement.” Then he shrugged. “What about you?”

“I feel like shit,” Malik said. “I’ll go put my clothes back on.”

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> Hope everything worked out.  
> 

The trip to get cookies hadn’t solved anything. It stretched the awkwardness until it was all dull angles and accidental brushes. Malik ate his cookies and looked miserable and chastised while Altair picked his own cookies apart and tried to work out if he felt bad or justified for the whole fucking disaster. 

“I’m going to take a bath,” he said when they got home. Malik said, ‘ok’ and looked at him with the same confused-sad-look that he had adopted since Altair went off and started crying like a god-damn idiot. That was fifteen-twenty minutes ago. Enough time that the water had gone from broiling to soupy-hot. Altair leaned back against the tub with his eyes closed and his arms laying under the water. 

He heard the door open, and looked over. Malik came over wearing nothing but his undershirt and the pants that he slept in. 

“Everything okay?” Altair asked.

“No,” Malik said. He pulled the shirt off over his head and dropped it to the side. “You need to understand that I can be very stubborn and not always for good reasons.” Then he pushed at the waistband of his pants until they were sliding down off his thighs. He stood there naked—self-consciously aware of it—and then cleared his throat. He stepped into the tub, peered down into the water to see where Altair’s legs were and put his feet on either side before he lowered himself down to his knees. The water sloshed at the edges of the tub as he settled down across Altair’s thighs. “I do love your body,” he said when a shrug. “But it’s not that hard to find guys with bodies like yours willing to fuck me. I did alright with that long before I met you. I mean, I had Leonardo and you probably didn’t see him with his clothes off but he’s all muscle.” Malik reached down into the water to pick up Altair’s hand—first the left and then the right, and put them on his waist while he talked. “I love you because you’re resilient, you’re intelligent, you’re aggravatingly charming,” (and Altair smiled because he couldn’t help it, “you’re funny at times, but most importantly, you never stop fighting no matter what it costs you.”

Altair moved one of his hands up, out of the water and up over Malik’s ribs to the center of his chest where the dark little hairs spread around his fingers before being slicked down by the water. “Please don’t have sex with me just because you feel guilty.”

Malik cock an eyebrow up at him. “I didn’t say we were having sex.”

Altair dropped his head back against the tub with a little thump and let out an aggravated groan before he looked up again. He meant to straighten up but Malik leaned forward with his hand against the edge of the tub and his mouth hovering just above kissing him. “If you’re serious, we’re breaking up.”

Malik kissed him. Altair ran both his hands down Malik’s back, dragged his fingertips from the curve of his shoulders to the curve of his ass. Malik made an encouraging noise into the kiss, pressed his hand against Altair’s chest and licked at his mouth until Altair kissed him back with the same dirty enthusiasm. In his head, he had expected them to devolve into manhandling as soon as they saw one another, and then he’d mutated his fantasy into some soft-toned porn (the sort from romance movies) and now Malik was rocking against his body, the half-hard press of his dick nudging at Altair’s belly under the water. And the movement made the water rise-and-fall so it was going over the sides of the tub and washing all the way up to Altair’s throat. 

He sat up in the tub with both hands around Malik’s back, held him in place as he mouthed at his neck—tasted sweat and fresh water—scraping his teeth and pressing kissing here-and-there until he found somewhere that made Malik’s head tip back. And there was a hand squeezing around his arm and Malik’s legs were moving to wrap around him rather than straddle him. (And Altair liked that very much) which set him squarely over Altair’s dick.

“Are you going to change your mind?” Altair asked, “Please don’t change your mind.” 

Malik ducked down to kiss him again, all breath-and-tongue, hanging onto his hair even as Altair’s hands dug into his ass and pushed-pulled him under the water so he was rubbing across Altair’s dick. When Malik groaned, it was a shivering-thing, a long wet tendril of spit caught between their mouths. “You can fuck me unless you come before we make it to the bed.” Then he kissed him again. As if one could simply say such things and then kiss someone. 

Altair had to give up his handhold on Malik’s ass to grab the side of the tub and used it as leverage to pull himself up. Malik held onto him, arm over his shoulder and legs around his body, not at all bothered to be lifted by the motion, or when he was pushed down against the opposite side of the tub. 

The water rolled over the sides of the tub again, splashed loudly against the floor, spread out in sudsy bubbles until it washing up against the bottom of the cabinets and the floorboards. It would have to be mopped up before it did any real damage and Altair didn’t even care a little.

With his back against the tub, Malik’s legs loosened from behind his back but his arm tightened to keep him close. He was lazy and easy, warm beneath the water: solid and slippery. And every roll of Altair’s hips slid their dicks together so Malik was making appreciative noises and stroking wet fingers against the nape of his neck. “Do you have condoms?”

“Yes.” Altair pulled one of his legs up so his knee was out of the water. “I have lube too.”

“Good,” Malik said. He arched up, dropped his elbow and used it to pull himself up so he was sitting on the edge of the tub rather than under the water. His knees were spread around Altair’s ribs, and he was breathing hard. The water made his skin pink from the heat, and he smelled like soap and running water. Altair scooted forward on his knees, put both arms across Malik’s legs and circled his hand around Malik’s dick. 

It wasn’t that he’d never seen another man’s dick. He had nothing but male relatives all around him. He had friends in high school. He had reasons and occasions to see other penises in person but those experiences were thankfully very different than this one. He ran his tongue across his lips while Malik ran his damp hand through his hair. 

Malik said, “you don’t ha—oh.” 

Altair never _had_ to give anyone head. He’d gotten laid a lot of times before he even figured out that it was something that you could do with women. He took a minute to appreciate the blunt differences between this-and-women. Malik’s thumb was swiping the hair away from his forehead because he was staring down at him with his shoulders leaning back as far as they could before he fell off the edge of the stupid tub. And his dick was _hot_ in Altair’s mouth, a firm weight against his tongue as he worked out exactly what he wanted to do with it. (Not that he really needed to do much since Malik seemed to pretty fucking excited just to watching.) He closed his lips around it and sucked on it. 

“Oh fuck,” Malik mumbled. He dropped his hand down to search for a decent grip to keep himself upright. The water was pooling all around the edges, slick under his palm and he made choked little sounds when Altair started bobbing his head. “Fuck,” he said again. His head tipped back and his eyes closed. But then he looked up again, chin to his chest as he reached up to curl his fingers into the hair behind Altair’s ear and pulled him upward. “We’re finding a bed.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I didn’t want to just fuck him
> 
> That’s because you think sex is a dirty sin and you always have.
> 
> Forget your Mother’s religion, Malik. Accept that you take great comfort in physical contact.
> 
> It honestly couldn’t make anything any worse
> 
> Great. Text me after, let me know if you survived his dick

Altair had discovered every spot on his neck and collar that was sensitive to touch and was alternating between sucking marks into his skin (stopping just short of leaving lasting marks) and kissing Malik with the same precise frustration as he’d shouted at him earlier with. The sheets under them were damp from the water that they’d been dripping when they fell into it bed. Altair was a persistent weight over him, pushing him down into the bed and rocking against him, applying exactly the right sort of pressure to make him feel grounded without making him feel crushed. 

(And Malik had no thoughts about how he’d mastered that talent.)

He’d dug the condoms and lube out of his bedside table and paused only long enough to say (with an embarrassed red rash on his cheeks), “uh—do you, I mean, should I—” Malik had laughed at him with one leg around his back and his head nodding, “yes, fingers first. I’ve seen your dick.” 

That must have been how he ended up with Altair sucking at his neck, angling his fingers into him with obnoxious accuracy: all at once stretching him open and making his body fidget with want for more. If Malik weren’t preoccupied with how much he wanted to get _off_ he might have had more appreciation for the mastery that Altair was carelessly displaying. Instead of taking time to voice his compliments, he was dragging breath in over his dry lips and pulling Altair back up to kiss him. The condom was on the wrong side of the bed for him to grab it (and the spike of inane anger he felt for not having a left hand to grab it was shocking and yet ordinary) so he had to twist onto his side to rescue the package out of the folds of the sheet. 

Altair licked his lips and watched (all heavy-breathing and half-open eyes) as Malik tore the package open (with his teeth, unfortunately) and then squinted at it to figure out which was the inside before he held it out for him. “I honestly still expected you to change your mind,” he said. His voice was a whisper, halting and half-expressed. 

“I might if your dick doesn’t fit.” Malik leaned back into the stack of pillows (that seemed excessive to him until this moment) and watched Altair roll his eyes at him before he pulled his fingers free and worked the condom onto his dick. While there was a certain romance to being able to kiss the man that was fucking them, there was a far more necessary pragmatism necessary when considering optimal sex positions. Malik considered his options carefully while Altair slicked his dick with lube. “Move, let me turn over.”

Altair seemed surprised by that but he didn’t protest, just leaned back and let Malik roll onto his belly and get his knees under him. Once he was there, Altair was leaning across his back one hand around his waist (fingers spread across his skin but oh-so-careful to avoid the scars like he’d been told) and the other was between them lining his dick up. “Ready?” he asked.

“Feel free to take your time.” He meant it as sarcasm but Altair took it as instruction and pressed into him by fractions, rocking back-and-in until it was more aggravation than it was worth. Malik spit dirty curses into the pillow under his face as he rested his weight on his left shoulder and reached back to grab Altair’s hip with his hand and dragged him forward. “Fuck me,” he said. 

Altair slid into him—not entirely, but _more_ and it was an immense feeling, spreading out in a confusion of tingling pleasure (and short confusing bursts of pain). The sounds he made were _adoring_ noises, mouthed into Malik’s back as he stalled out (again). “Fuck,” he mumbled. “Sure?”

“Yes,” Malik said. He put his elbow back against the bed, “remember I have a dick.”

Altair bit the back of his shoulder, just hard enough to leave a heated impression of teeth before he dropped one hand to the bed and gave up on the pretenses of being shy-and-overly careful. He thrust into Malik with the same pent-up frustration, months (or more) of denied want and agonizing hours of their lives spent nagging at one another’s nerves. Malik’s knees slid on the sheets and Altair followed him down, pushed both his hands to the bed and _fucked_ him slow-and-steady in a way that was as _aggravating_ as his arrogant grin, until the shock of his (monstrous) dick had worn into a familiar stretch and Malik’s hand wasn’t grabbing at sheets because he was working through the confusing mix of pain-pleasure but pushing against the headboard beneath the pile of pillows, trying to push back and get _more_. 

Altair leaned across his back, slid his hand up to push Malik’s face sideways so he could kiss him (sloppy and uncoordinated) before he kissed the nape of his neck and his shoulders and pressed his forehead against Malik’s back and started _fucking_ him in earnest. The first slap of Altair’s hips against his ass was embarrassingly loud, matched only by the sudden drag of his breath. Altair said, “ok?”

Malik said, “yes, stop asking, fuck me.”

“You’re so fucking bossy.” But Altair was _fucking_ him, dragging him back up onto his knees with two hands pulling at his thighs and holding him there. The headboard was smacking into the wall and Malik pushed his hand against it because he was being fucked-up-into it and Altair was gasping little noises behind him, dragging him backward with every thrust, slapping their bodies together in an embarrassing excess of noise and Malik thought he should give some feedback (tell him that was good) and couldn’t manage to breath enough to bother with it.

He was trying to figure out if he could take his hand off the headboard to put it on his dick (and thinking he should just tell the guy fucking his body out of shape that he was supposed to remember his dick) but Altair pulled too far back and slid out of him, Malik cursed and Altair groaned. His hands tightened on Malik’s hips and pulled at him.

It was Altair spinning him in a circle and pushing him back until his back was against the headboard and his legs were spread around Altair’s whole body. He felt indecently open, even before the pink-faced bastard slid back into him. Altair’s hand folded around the top of the headboard, his knuckles cushioned the sound of it smacking the wall as he fucked up-and-into him. Malik couldn’t manage to do more than loop his arm around Altair’s stupid-perfect-shoulders and kiss his stupid-perfect mouth. His lips were red from irritation and exertion, soft under his. The kiss was rising-and-falling, all breath and moans. Malik’s eyes were squeezed closed because his whole body was concentrated on the _need_ to orgasm. 

“Altair,” he gasped. “You have to—”

There again was Altair’s mouth on the base of his neck, the pull of his mouth sucking at the tender skin as his dick pushed up into him and his hand closed around Malik’s dick and managed a few strokes before Malik was coming. Altair stopped moving, shocked into a polite stopping point but Malik pulled at his neck, “keep fucking me, keep—” so he went back to it. On-and-on, dragging it out until Malik could _think_ again, could concentrate on Altair’s quivering body between his thighs and the needy little whimpers that were caught in his throat. He stroked his fingers through Altair’s hair and pushed his heels against the bed and his shoulders against the wall behind him so he had the leverage to fuck back against the short-quick-jerks of Altair’s hips. It wasn’t his best effort, but Altair was clutching at his sides, sliding his hands down to his ass to pulling him down harder on every thrust until his fingers tightened hard-enough to leave _bruises_. 

Malik thought (never fucked anyone who didn’t make a noise before) but also _that’s fucking amazing_ because Altair was all tension against him, grinding up into his body and holding him there in the most selfish-display of pleasure ever seen. When it relaxed, he sagged back and then smiled at him. There was sweat on his face thick enough it was in his eyelashes and Malik ran his fingers across it to wipe it away. 

Altair leaned forward and kissed him. Malik looped his arm around him and kissed him back.


	66. Chapter 66

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> brush your teeth when you're done reading this.

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Survived his dick
> 
> I am very pleased to hear it.
> 
> He was actually still in bed when I woke up
> 
> Did you fuck him again?
> 
> I said I survived, I didn’t say I was insane
> 
> But you have to fuck regularly so it’ll get easier.
> 
> Have I taught you nothing?
> 
> I am still 100% sure that you just said that bullshit so you could fuck me twice a day for two weeks
> 
> I’m certain you only pretended to believe me because you wanted to get fucked.
> 
> Besides, he wanted breakfast. Can’t fuck after breakfast
> 
> I hate the swimming pool rule.
> 
> A man has to know his own priorities. If you want to fuck in the morning, you have to eat breakfast later
> 
> I know. I remember. That did not make me dislike your tyrannical hold over my orgasms any less.
> 
> Ha. I seem to remember you expressing that frustration pretty clearly
> 
> I remember you enjoying my frustration.
> 
> Probably wouldn’t have let him fuck me anyway, we’re back in the car again
> 
> I forgot you have a delicate ass.
> 
> I do not have a delicate ass. He has an actual anaconda for a dick
> 
> I must see this thing for myself one day. The reports on it vary, for scientific purposes, I feel someone that doesn’t want it should measure it properly.
> 
> Right, I’ll just let you ask him that one yourself

They got in the car and Altair said, “north, south, east or west?” 

“East?” Malik said. He shifted around in his seat until he found a comfortable slant where he could see the traffic passing and Altair at the same time. He was caught between a dreary quiet sensation of uncertainty that followed him out of bed that morning and a peaceful sense of _escape_. The heater made the car the perfect falling-asleep temperature and that must have been why Altair took his coat off while they were stuck in traffic and pulled his sleeves up to his elbows. Malik said, “was your grandmother actually a psychopath?”

Then Altair sighed. “You mean was she diagnosed as one? I don’t know.”

“You don’t ever talk about her,” Malik said.

Altair shrugged. He looked out of the corner of his eye, just a quick flash of a glance and then back again looking forward. “I don’t think it’s ever been relevant? What did you want to know?”

Well that was too difficult a question to unravel. He reviewed everything he knew about Altair’s childhood (the brief bits of information he’d gleaned) before he said, “I don’t know. What was she like? Did she make you breakfast? Did she put you to sleep at night, what did she do when you were sick?”

“She did not always make me breakfast. Especially not when we were travelling, or if she was busy with her companies. Mrs. Finch made me breakfast most of the time when we were at home. She made all of us breakfast—all the cousins. Ezio, Federico and Desmond came to live with us most of the summers. We were all supposed to be in the kitchen by eight in the morning if we wanted to eat and Mrs. Finch fed us. Grandma made breakfast for me when she had the chance, she always made the hot cereals. We always had the kitchen to ourselves when she cooked. She never ate it but she always sat with me and let me talk about whatever I had thought up.” Then he sighed. “This is what you want to know?” He glanced to the side again.

“Yeah,” Malik said.

The Altair shrugged again. “She did tuck me in, I guess. She was always there when I was going to bed. We read stories and told stories a lot. She used to tell me this one about how I used to be a fish,” and he smiled (briefly, oh-so-fleetingly). 

“What was it?”

Altair let out a breath and then he shrugged like he was working up to actually telling the story. The discomfort on his face was curious if only because he seemed to be confused by why it mattered. He opened his mouth and then closed it again and finally said, “why are you asking?”

“Because I didn’t know you even liked art,” Malik said. “I know a lot of facts about you; not a lot of that covers what things were really like for you—from your own experience. It’s not a test, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

Altair rolled his eyes. “It’s not that. Just—there’s, uh. There’s not a lot that you’d probably agree with.” He glanced at Malik again.

“I’m not asking because I want to judge your family. I want to understand.” He was on the verge of scrubbing the whole notion out of the way, changing the subject to something safer and less prickly when Altair let out a sigh.

“Ok,” he said, “well. She said I was born a fish and she had to call this witch doctor—” He told the story in sepia-tones, that softness of memory overlaying something beloved. The whole sum of his story made him smile and when he was finished he shrugged like he was aware how silly the whole thing sounded to an outsider. “There are so many things about my Grandmother that I’ve learned since she died that make me wonder what sort of woman she really was, but I loved her. I felt _safe_ and _loved_ with her in a way that I haven’t felt since she died.” Then he looked conflicted and immediately said, “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” Malik said. “What about the others? You said Desmond and Ezio and Federico visited you in the summers?”

“Yeah,” Altair said. He fell into telling stories of the many (mis)fortunes of the idiot boys. He laughed over Ezio’s every accident and rolled his eyes about Federico’s pig-headedness and he got quiet when he talked about Desmond, like his voice was modulated to fit the close-dark-rooms of the house where Desmond stayed in the stories. Altair talked-and-talked and Malik leaned against the door and listened.

\--

Saltair3412: @MariaThorpe, do you know who Sass is? Can you tell us?

MariaThorpe: @saltair3412, I am only answering this because I’ve gotten asked many times. I do know Sass. I will not tell you. That is for Sass to say.

They stopped in a town that boasted good hotels and hot food. Malik wanted Chinese and they sat in the parking lot of the Chinese place, eating out of paper cartons. Altair was working through an eggroll while Malik told him about how he’d been a waiter for a few weeks and how much he hated it.

“No,” Altair said as he licked the food from between his teeth and cheek. “You _cannot_ work in customer service—who even hired you? Were they desperate?”

Malik glared at him but he was grinning all the same. “I hated it,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve had a job that I didn’t hate. I mean, besides the blog.”

Altair nodded. “I told you that using the ads to make money was a good idea. About the time you started getting exclusive content about my life and I became relevant to the gossip circles, you were set. I mean, I don’t know what you make.”

“I don’t do poorly,” Malik said. Then he licked the rice off the spoon he was using to eat and leaned his weight against the door. “Who paid my hospital bills? I don’t honestly remember most of the immediate aftermath. I know that lawyer came and handled the legal aspect, I think I remember someone telling me that the other guy’s insurance was responsible for the bills but that doesn’t seem like it would have covered them all.”

“I cannot tell you what portion was covered by insurance and if there was any leftover that was covered by other sources. I sent the lawyer to handle it. He was told exactly what was expected and I did not hear back about any difficulties so I imagine that it was handled without incident.” But that wasn’t the question, “if you’re asking if I paid for the remainder, if a remainder existed, the answer is yes. You know, Desmond dates Lucy and Lucy is from some blue-collar type family that lives in this smaller town I guess. They are the sort of people who buy the off brand cereal and save up for a few years to go on big vacations, they throw parties and it takes all of their food budget for the month. Now, Desmond doesn’t live like or act like it but he’s got money. He’s got a lot of money and he was smart about it so he could live very easily off the earnings of his investments. He doesn’t spend his money on anything so it accumulates.”

“Uh-huh,” Malik said. 

“Lucy can’t stand the money. She won’t quit her job even though she hates it because she was raised in a world where she had to be able to provide for herself. She yelled at me for three days the time I made her buy a new dress to go to breakfast at this place with this dress code. She hates it; Desmond accepts that. He just waits for her to adjust and change her mind. But he bought her a diamond and he figured she’d yell at him about being wasteful. I don’t want to live like that.”

Malik set down the carton of food against his thigh and the door and reached to pick up his soda and took a drink of it while Altair was talking so that he was licking it off his lips before he could talk. “Is this your subtle way of telling me I need to upgrade my wardrobe?”

“It’s my unsubtle way of telling you that, in certain circumstances, there is the expectation of a certain quality level. This is how I’ve always lived my life. If I spend two thousand dollars to buy you something, and you yell at me about how it’s a waste of money, it’s—insulting. I didn’t buy it because of the cost.”

“I was raised poor,” Malik said. “There will probably be times I don’t understand why the things you’re buying cost what they do. I buy my clothes a thrift store.” Malik shrugged. “But I’m not going to fight you or feel personally insulted if my wardrobe doesn’t meet the minimum standards set by society. I will do my best to be gracious about whatever gifts you buy. But you’ve seen my room. I don’t have many possessions all on my own.” Then he set his drink down. 

“Yeah, I noticed.” Then he pushed the rest of the egg roll into his mouth. “You ready to go?”

“Yeah,” Malik closed the white carton with one hand (with more skill than Altair expected) before he leaned forward to set it on the floorboard. “I’m ready to be out of this car.”

\--

MariaThorpe: could one of you kindly surface and assure the collective internet that you are not dead? @sass-badger, @son-of-no-one

sass-badger: waking up next to your boyfriend. Expectation: [ _picture of Altair, shirtless, lightly snoozing with the blanket pulled down to his waist every muscle highlighted with perfect lighting_ ].

Sass-badger: reality: [ _picture of a large human-shape under thick blankets, only the top of Altair’s head is visible._ ]

“Are you very proud of yourself?” Altair asked him when he finally got out of bed. They found a hotel with a decent pool and spent most of the evening swimming. They had pulled themselves out long enough to order food, eat and fall asleep.

Malik was lying on the couch feeling surly-and-hungry and vaguely horny. The selection of movies on mid-week morning TV had not yet yielding anything worth watching. “I’m fairly proud, yes.”

Altair considered this while he scrubbed his fingers through his hair and squinted at his phone, “what the hell does ‘he could eat crackers in my bed’ even mean?” Then he tossed it to the side and stood at the end of the couch for a moment. Malik had not bothered getting dressed, much the same way he hadn’t bothered getting dressed for bed the night before. He was wearing his underwear (the royal blue ones) and nothing else, laying on the couch with one of his legs against the back of it and the other hanging off the side, his right arm under his head content to watch bullshit commercials advertising amazing specials on TV. Altair was looking at him, taking a moment to smile about the marks he’d left at the base of Malik’s neck, easing his stare down his chest—not as well defined as Altair’s but not shapeless either—over his belly (slim and tight) before he came to an abrupt standstill. Then the bastard licked his lips as he stood there staring at Malik’s dick through his underwear and when he moved it was a slow-but-sure motion, dipping forward and grabbing him by the knee to pull him around so his hips were at the edge of the couch. Altair lowered himself to his knees, settled low on them as his hands rested across Malik’s ribs and he leaned up to kiss him. 

Malik’s standards had never been high (except when considering the pleasing physical aspects of his bed partners) but it used to take something slightly more impressive than a chaste kiss and a long stare to make him get hard. Now he was watching Altair kiss down his chest and his whole body was suddenly acutely aware of every nerve ending because he’d never had much of a relationship with his nipples until Altair’s mouth ran across one of them. He hummed a noise against the roof of his mouth and tilted his hips up so his hardening dick was pressed against the glorious firmness of Altair’s body. “What was your plan here?” he asked. 

Altair looked up from where he was licking his way steadily downward just long enough to cock up an eyebrow before his hand slid off Malik’s thigh (when had it gotten there?) to cover his dick. Then he _smiled_ oh-so-pleased at himself, when he said, “I’m going to suck your dick.”

“Oh,” Malik answered. “If you want to.” (Which was very stupid to say.) He lifted up when Altair tugged at the waistband of his underwear and pulled his legs up out of them one-at-a-time. He had one of his feet on the ground and one of his thighs over Altair’s shoulder. His hand was pressed against his own chest because Leonardo had been so fucking insistent on not having his head touched that it had become a law his body followed without thought. Altair’s mouth was slick and hot, exploring in a way that was genuinely curious and deliciously lewd all at once. “You really like this?” Malik asked because a mouthful of dick wasn’t his favorite thing in the world (it was much closer to least favorite) but Altair was making little appreciating noises while he worked it out. 

When Altair pulled off his dick, it made a wet popping noise and the bastard was so damn proud of himself with his rubbed-red-lips and spit on his chin. He swallowed and nodded. “When I get better at this you won’t have to stay so still.” Like a dirty promise of their future sex. Then he wiped his chin on the back of his hand and ducked back down. He stopped short and looked back up at him. “You can touch me. It doesn’t bother me. I like it.”

Oh well, if he was just going to give permission like that. Malik ruffled his fingers through Altair’s hair, cupped his hand around the back of his head to follow the motion of it as it rose and fell, taking his dick in deeper and then pulling up to concentrate just at the tip. And then again—and he ran his fingers across Altair’s shoulder, tipped his head when he felt the muscles flexing and watched his elbow moving in a slow-sure-rhythm because he was jerking off and sucking dick. “Fuck,” Malik mumbled. 

He felt languid and unhurried, lazy enough to luxuriate in the gathering tension of _want_. The TV was promising him never-before-sales in the background and for a minute he concentrated on whatever the fuck furniture store had never had a sale like that before until Altair pinched him on the belly. He was looking up at him, still sucking Malik’s dick but with a disapproving stare. 

“It’s a huge sale,” Malik said to him. He ran his hand back through Altair’s hair. “There hasn’t been one like this in a decade. Everything must go.” That earned him a disgruntled noise from Altair who couldn’t be bothered to retort properly but settled for pushing his leg up toward his chest instead. Malik said, “suck a little harder—yeah, oh. Yes like that.” He was torn between watching his dick sliding across Altair’s lips and watching his arm move as he jerked his own dick faster. Halfway between the beautiful, obscene reality of Altair’s mouth on his dick and the final proof that the man really did have a ‘thing’ for oral sex, Malik lost his grip on the lazy pleasure. He pushed his foot against the floor to lift his hips and nearly came just from the sweetly orgasmic noise of surprise and encouragement that vibrated through Altair’s whole body, caught at the tip of Malik’s dick and vibrated all the way up to his ears.

He did it again-and-again and one-more-time but then he lost it because Altair was _there_ with a brutally-quick jerk of his arm and that same perfectly-silent tightening of his body, he pulled back from Malik’s dick to clench his teeth but was back again in a half-breath sucking at him with the same intensity. 

\--

> Maria Thorpe
> 
> So you asked me if I’d like giving head to a man as much as a woman
> 
> the answer is yes
> 
> An enthusiastic yes or an obligatory yes.
> 
> Embarrassingly enthusiastic.
> 
> Has he chained you to the bed? If I were a heterosexual woman you would never have gotten out from between my thighs.
> 
> We’re shopping for furniture currently
> 
> Keep your eye out for headboards big enough to drill chains anchors into

The biggest sale ever was the biggest rip off ever. Altair was half-tempted to buy every piece of furniture that the place had for sale just to spare whatever poor unsuspecting customers from the shoddy quality of it all. More important than the terrible craftsmanship of the furniture (not even sturdy enough to survive the most casual of attempts to sit on it) was the fact that Malik apparently attracted customer service representatives like a magnet.

“I am just looking,” Malik said the third person that tried to insist that they be allowed to help him. 

Altair got up off the couch (that creaked ominously at him), “you don’t look gullible or helpless.” 

“Maybe they think I’m going to steal something,” Malik said. He glanced down at himself: neatly dressed in perfectly respectable clothes, only slightly rumpled from too many hours in a bag, only a tie away from looking like he could have worked at any office anywhere. And then he looked over at Altair who was wearing jeans and T-shirt, shuffling after him like a loser. “Also, people are very helpful to me because they are uncomfortable with my left arm.” 

“What do you call your left arm?”

Malik just sighed at him, turned around next to a set of cheap bedroom furniture, looking deeply saddened by the question. “It has been frequently called a stump or a residual limb. I don’t have any real preference for either.”

“Does it hurt?”

“No,” Malik said. “And you can touch it. It’s just like anywhere else on my body at this point. It’s completely healed now.” He reached out with his right arm and pushed his hand down into the mattress on the four-poster bed next to him. “I’ve never bought a mattress. Have you?”

“Yes, I’ve bought several. I replace mine—a lot.” Altair smiled because Malik frowned. “Don’t make that face at me. The only person I’ve ever fucked in my bed is you.” Then he put his hand against the mattress by Malik’s and pushed on it. “Ok that is shit. Are you finished walking around this mockery of a furniture store?”

“Can I help you gentleman?” a petite woman with an unnaturally perky smile asked. She stood there with her hands pressed together in front of her, looking smartly interested in their interest in the bed.

“I’m not sure,” Altair said, “we were just testing the bed out. Do you think they’d mind if we jumped on it?”

The woman’s smile was strained. “Excuse me?”

“We have a _very_ vigorous sex life,” Malik answered. He put his hand up on Altair’s shoulder. And let out a soft sounding sigh. “Just look at this. Anyone would have the same problem.” He tightened his hand around Altair’s bicep before he continued on, “we’re making do with a mattress on the floor since we broke the last bad, were just looking for something sturdier.” And Malik smiled with such sincerely vicious pleasure at the embarrassment on the woman’s face.

“I don’t think that they would allow that,” she said. “This may not be the right store for you.”

“That’s what the last five stores said,” Altair said. He shrugged. “Thank you for your time—Valerie.” Then he held out his hand and she very-reluctantly reached out to shake his hand. She released him as soon as she was able. 

Outside again, Malik was rolling his eyes, and Altair turned around to step backward across the parking lot, using Malik’s expression to be a guide as to when he was about to run into something. He motioned at the building they were walking away from and Malik sighed. “I have no defense. I can’t believe I just did that.”

“I thought it was good,” Altair said. He laughed. “You were so deadpan. I think she believed you.” Then he reached over to sling his arm across Malik’s shoulders and pulled him up to kiss him. Malik didn’t shove him away (like he expected) or exactly melt into the touch but tolerated it with grace. When they parted, Malik shrugged his arm off but caught his hand to hold it. “I don’t think I’ve ever broken a bed fucking someone. I want to try now.”

“Ha,” Malik said. “Not with your dick.” And he accentuated the point by shaking his head. “At least not any time soon.” Then he looked over his shoulder, “I cannot believe I did that.” The smile on his face was amazed (at himself) but he was embarrassed with red cheeks and a nervous kind of laugh. “Well, what are we going to do now?”

“Imaginary bed-breaking makes me hungry.” Skipping breakfast also made him hungry. “Lunch?”

\--

notyourbrother: I could not tell you what @sass-badger looks like because it’s been weeks since I saw them last. (2h ago)

horse: @notyourbrother, I believe @sass-badger has dark hair. (1h ago)

Notyourbrother: @horse, really? It’s so hard to remember (1h ago)

It was dark-and-cold when the movie let out. Altair carried the popcorn that Malik was still eating in little handfuls. The drinks had been thrown into the trash along with the wasted hours of their lives spent watching that movie. They were moving lazily toward the car, taking their time as they headed away from the theater.

“But,” Altair said, “no, this is important.” He lifted the popcorn over his head so Malik couldn’t reach it without having to pull his arm down (and that sort of fighting was really unfair). “You’re telling me that if I got amnesia you wouldn’t recreate our romance to help me remember how I fell in love with you?”

“How the hell am I going to ‘recreate our romance’?” Malik demanded. “Move out, start trashing you anonymously until you find me again? How did you find me?” He took advantage of the introspective stutter that made Altair’s grip on the popcorn loosen to jump up and take it. He tucked it between his elbow and his body but couldn’t figure out how to get his hand into at the same time. 

“Desmond,” Altair said after a pause. He snatched the popcorn bucket back and held it low enough Malik could get to it with a sad shake of his head that he was still eating it (one assumed). “I did something that pissed him off—”

“Desmond gets angry?” It seemed like a stupid question as soon as it was said. And yet, in all the stories that Altair had shared about his cousin, he had never once mentioned Desmond doing anything that approached as involved as anger. For that matter, after meeting the man in person he didn’t seem to have the energy to be moved to that level of emotion.

“Not the way we do,” Altair conceded. “I think I was complaining about having to exercise, anyway he gave me your website and told me that you could explain why I couldn’t behave like a little bitch. I don’t know how he found it. Probably Lucy.” Then Altair elbowed him in the side. “You really suck at romance.”

Malik licked the salt off his lips. “Leonardo says I have no beauty in my soul. But I think that’s harsh criticism coming from a man that doesn’t believe in love.” He considered taking another handful of popcorn but took the bucket and dunked it into the wide-mouthed trashcan instead. He dusted his hand on the side of pants (since he had nothing else to use). 

“But I can _flirt_.” Altair sounded so put-out by the idea. “Every time I try to flirt with you, you shoot me down or just skip the fun part and go straight to the graphic sexual content.” He was very quick to say, “I like sex. Don’t take this the wrong way.”

“You don’t need to flirt with me. I’m already here. But if it’s important to you, if you got amnesia and a reliable source told me that it would help you remember me, I would recreate some key event in our history in hopes that you would remember me. We have wonderful moments to choose from: fighting, fighting, arguing, having sex and seeing this movie together.” He smiled and Altair sneered at him. That didn’t seem to work for him. “If you forgot me, I would wait for you. You fell in love with me once when you had no idea who I was, I imagine you could do it again.” 

That made Altair smile, he caught Malik by the loose left arm of his coat, where the pinned up sleeves was too thick to lay properly and pulled him so they were crowded together in between the pools of light from the lamps. “That was a good attempt,” he said before he kissed Malik. His mouth was warm in the chill and Malik leaned back in against it, kissed him like _graphic sexual content_ so that Altair was wrinkling up his nose with a grimace. “And you ruined it. Let’s go back to the room.”

Malik laughed all the way to the car.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> At some point you are going to put up that video right?
> 
> You might not care about the internet anymore but they really care about you
> 
> Soon

They ended up at an aquarium because they saw a sign and took a few turns in the right direction until they found it. Malik could appreciate the beauty of fish as well as anyone, but Altair was the sort of person that had to stop and read every bit of information posted on the walls or in front of the tanks. He had to stand still and watch the fish, identify one from the other.

Malik found a bench that afforded him a good view of Altair watching fish and smiled at the nervous-mom-types that went by with their anxious toddlers exclaiming over fish. It took ten or fifteen minutes before Altair even noticed he’d walked away and when he did it, it was him turning his head one way and then the other, until he walked over and sat next to him. “Remembering your childhood home?” Malik asked.

Altair snorted. “Are you bored?”

“I am less intrigued than you are,” Malik answered. “I’m not bored.” 

Altair went back to looking at the fish in the massive tank, watching them swim in little flits and long glides. His face relaxed as he watched, the whole of his body seemed to settle into something that neared the sort of relaxed he only seemed to manage when he was asleep. There was the faintest touch of a smile trying to creep up on his cheeks and he didn’t look at Malik but watch those fish moving around in front of him, “what’s your perfect day, Malik?”

“There’s no such thing.”

Altair rolled his eyes and turned his head. His hands were resting on the edge of the bench and he pulled his legs in from where they’d been stretched out in front of him because a group of women went past them. He said, “what is your _ideal_ day, Malik? What would you do? Where would you go? Who would you go with?”

That wasn’t a fair question. It was the kind of question that someone asked when they wanted to know they were featured in your most private moments of peace. It was perfectly designed to disappoint. Malik leaned back a bit while he tried to work out what he would do if he had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. “Warm but not hot, sunny but not too bright, a comfortable seat by an open window with no traffic to be distracting. A stack of books that I haven’t read yet, a readily available supply of snacks for when I get hungry.” But that wasn’t entirely true. Malik read _alone_ because his eyes were easily distracted and his ears were full of jealousy for new sounds. His hands had the wandering lust to touch whatever they could and anything else was better than the dry papers of a good book. “When I’m done and I don’t want to read anymore, someone to make dinner with, to sit and eat with.” He shrugged. 

“What would you eat for dinner?” Altair asked.

“I don’t know, something—something warm, with fresh bread.” Malik shrugged again, “what about you?”

“I don’t think like that,” Altair said. He was aware how dick-ish that sounded because he looked immediately defensive about it. “I mean that, it matters more who I’m with than what I’m doing. I know what I don’t like. I don’t know what I do. If you asked what my ideal day with—Desmond is. I could tell you that we’d buy the good beer, make enough food to feed us for a few weeks, lock all the doors, find some album we don’t mind listening to on repeat for a few hours and we’d play video games until our hands were sore. He likes to walk and bitch about why he lost, how he finally defeated some boss so we’d walk to get coffee or more beer or whatever we needed.” Altair shrugged. 

“What do you do when you’re alone?” Malik asked.

“Pout,” Altair smiled but there was no dismissive gesture to follow the word. Either he had been convinced that was how he spent his time or it was how he truly felt. “I spent a whole day baking pies once. That wasn’t so bad.” He rubbed his hands against his legs. “Are you ready to go? I think there’s some kind of café thing at the end of this. We can get something to eat.”

“Sure,” Malik said. He got up. 

\--

Shirley-Templar: I would like to politely state for everyone who has asked that I will not be participating in the ‘who is Sass’ game you are currently playing. (39m ago)

Malik got angry all at once. They had been travelling in circles for five-six-seven days (more or less), bouncing around from one place to another, trying to figure out how to talk to one another while they filled the quiet spaces between their conversations with interesting distractions. But in the hotel rooms, away from the noise and lights, Malik would all-at-once stiffen up with anger. Altair had searched for commonalities in the circumstances, some unpleasant commercial on the TV, an unfortunate arrangement of limbs while lying on the couch, an unwanted taste in his mouth but there was nothing that tied the different moments together.

And it came again, in the gloomy gray-dark of their borrowed bed, with nothing but the light on Malik’s side to illuminate the landscape of blankets covering their bodies. Malik was reading a book he’d bought at the store they’d walked through earlier that day. It came like a creeping thing, stealing from his eyebrows to his hand. The anger rose under his skin: a hot blush and a painful flinch. Every muscle tensed and Malik’s lips pulled parted to show his white-white-teeth clenched together damp-and-furious.

“What is it?” Altair whispered. He was lying mostly on his belly, both of his arms under the pillows he was stacking to lay on (weighing the pros-and-cons of trying to seduce Malik away from the book to-be-honest). He slid his hand out and lifted it up to touch the side of Malik’s neck where the skin was growing pinker.

“What?” Malik asked.

“Why are you angry?” He might have pointed out that it had happened before (more than once) but he wasn’t certain Malik would be interested in knowing he was so easy to read. Not mentioning it gave Malik the chance to deny it happened at all. (And it seemed like that sort of thing he’d want to deny.

Rather than deflect the question, Malik set the book upside down in his lap. “I don’t know.” Then he almost smiled with his back pressed to the noisy headboard. “Leonardo told me I did that. It’s my subconscious at war. That’s what he said. ‘Your subconscious is fighting again’. I don’t notice it happens.” Then Malik sighed. “Does it bother you when I talk about him?”

“Yes.” Because it was the truth. It wasn’t _easy_ to hear the easy adoration and _comfortable knowledge_ that overwhelmed Malik’s every word when he talked about Leonardo. The whole mess of it was caught up in the attack that the man had launched on Altair, caught in nets made up of the disapproval that followed that fight and the notion that he’d never have the memories of Malik that Leonardo did. “But,” he said before Malik could launch into a reproach or extrapolate things he did not mean. “In a childish way. I don’t want it to bother me; I do want you to talk about him whenever you want. What is your subconscious warring about?”

Malik was staring at him all-narrow-eyes and skeptic acceptance. He sighed, “I didn’t want to fuck you.” It was oh-so-blunt. “I mean, I did. I really, really _did_. But I convinced myself that I shouldn’t. I felt like, I’ve never loved the people that I’ve had sex with. I like sex. I really like sex. But I wanted to prove to myself that I could make something work without having to fuck first and I couldn’t. I guess.” Then he frowned again. 

Altair pushed his hands to the bed and sat back. He crossed his legs in front of himself as the blanket fell back off his shoulders. “Why did you— Was it because of what I said?”

“I cannot dissect my motivation. I decided to have sex with you because the reasons that I wasn’t having sex with you weren’t good enough to continue to keep both of us from having something that we both wanted. I don’t regret having sex with you, I do want to keep having sex with you. I like it. I like the way it makes me feel. I like that you touch me now, you’re not hovering to the side. You look at me the way you did the first time I walked into your apartment. Those are all things that I like.” Malik must have been aware that he was doing a poor job of explaining himself because he made a disgruntled growling noise. “My subconscious has to fight it out,” he said finally. “I have to figure out that my choice was a good one. Then I put it away and I don’t have to worry about it.”

That wasn’t immensely reassuring. Altair sighed. “Can I say something?”

“Yeah.”

“I didn’t need to have sex with you to look at you the same, or to touch you or to love you. I like that we have sex now. It was the feeling that I got that we were only not having sex because you hadn’t decided that I was—a safe bet? That I wouldn’t fuck up again. That’s what it was for me. I do feel reassured that you want to stay now. I feel easier around you because I’m not constantly wondering what else I have to do to prove that I do want you. But that’s not the same as the feeling that I get when you tell me things about yourself or when we argue about proper hamburger condiments—or workers’ rights in China. If I just wanted to fuck you, I would have stopped humoring you as soon as I took my dick out.” 

Malik was smiling. “You’re such an asshole,” he said (but it was all barely-contained-humor). His tongue across his lips was thoughtful. “Yeah, I don’t even humor people before I fuck them. If you look good enough, we can go to bed.”

“It’s disgusting how shallow you are.” Then he weighed his next question against the half-realized sort of idea that he might get laid if he kept Malik smiling. “How do you decide what you’re going to do with them? What’s your ‘this guy can fuck me’ but ‘this guy can only suck my dick’ or ‘I’m going to fuck that guy’ rubric look like?”

That made Malik laugh (at least) and when he was done, he picked up the receipt from the book and stuck it in to mark his place. When the book was safely to the side he got on his knees and walked over to sit in Altair’s lap with his hand resting on his shoulder. Altair put his hands on Malik’s waist (just resting them there). “That depends on how intelligent they are,” he said.

“I think I know what the high IQ end gets, what does the low end get?” His fingers were working under Malik’s shirt, spreading across his back to feel his warm-warm skin. 

“Stupid people don’t know what to do with their teeth,” Malik whispered against his mouth. Then he kissed him. 

\--

EzioAuditore: I would tell you who Sass is and what exactly Sass looks like but it seems that I was not a beloved enough member of the family to have been invited to meet Sass properly. (7m ago)

Son-of-no-one: @EzioAuditore, it’s that you can’t keep a secret, not that you’re not beloved. (5m ago)

FedericotheFirst: @EzioAuditore, this is the same reason you were never allowed to buy the birthday presents for your friends. If you know, you must tell. (3m ago)

BestofThree: I thought that was because he just bought stuff for himself, @Federicothefirst. (1m ago)

It was inevitable that their little road trip would come to a point at which they could no longer afford to pretend that they could go another day without doing laundry. Malik had assumed (quietly) that when that day came they would be stuck in some hotel-based laundromat (or else, at least in their hotel room wearing their underwear waiting for the in-house laundry service to return their clothes) but he hadn’t expected Altair to wake up, take a shower, walk around naked looking for clothes, discover a pile of his unwashed, repeatedly-worn clothes, sniff them with the delicacy of a bloodhound and then sneer at them in disgust before announcing, “time to go buy some new clothes.”

“Buy?” Malik repeated. “What’s wrong with washing these ones?”

“We could wash them,” Altair agreed. He dug around until he found a pair of jeans that were the least unappealing to his nose. “But then I would have no excuse to take you out in public, dress you up in clothes I’ve never seen you wear, and make out with you in the changing rooms.” A quick attempt to go through his underclothes for something not offensive left him scowling. 

“This is a flagrant waste of money,” Malik said. He was eating breakfast (some massive buffett-style option that Altair had ordered carelessly from room service before he disappeared to take a shower) which was also an abuse of money. It was less obnoxious than going to buy a new wardrobe instead of just washing what they had. “And it’s presumptuous of you to think that I’d make out with you in a public place.”

Altair grinned at him. “We can negotiate what level of physical contact is acceptable.”

Well that was a diplomatic solution that didn’t address the problem at all. Malik licked his lips and pointed his fork at him. “Aren’t you afraid of closets and other public places? I seem to remember more than one story about women that were angry you wouldn’t hump them in public.”

That made Altair roll his eyes. “I didn’t say I was going to _hump_ you. I said make-out with our clothes on.”

Malik considered that. “I guess we can go clothes shopping. Except for the suit I wore for debate, I’ve never actually bought any significant amount of clothes from a real store.” Because Mother had always taken them to thrift stores where the racks and racks of button downs went on for miles, stretching out the long history of other guys who couldn’t escape the oppressive rule of buttons. “What do you do with all your extra clothes?”

“I think the maids take them? One of them has kids. Desmond said they take them and donate them. I don’t personally do anything with them.”

Of course he didn’t. Malik sighed. “I just need you to be more aware of the cost of your lifestyle. Where your clothes are made, what happens to them when you discard them—that kind of thing.” 

Altair managed to look disgruntled and put-on while he was completely naked, carrying a pair of underwear and his jeans dangling from his left fist. After a moment (of intense thought, it seemed), he said (very calmly), “I will take that under advisement.” Then he went to get dressed. By the time he came back from that, the food had gone cold and Malik had found clothes that were an (un)acceptable level of stinky to wear long enough to replace them. 

They drove around for an hour (or two) looking for somewhere that sold clothing deemed worthy by Altair. The sales lady that greeted them at the door was all smiles and kind encouragements, telling them about the sales and giving them directions to the section that would fit their style and size. She gave them her name (Shonda) and was sure to tell them to let her know if they had any needs. 

“You need a pair of jeans,” Altair said. He caught Malik’s hand as soon as they cleared the sales woman and guided him through the racks to the display of jeans. 

“Why?” Malik asked. He might have elaborated on his confusion but Altair was staring at him so intently that it was embarrassing. “What are you doing?”

“I’m trying to figure out what aspect of your body I want to highlight with my choice in clothing for you. You have a great ass and a good pair of jeans would definitely improve your wardrobe because it would make that more obvious but then everyone would know you have a great ass instead of the mostly shapeless lump that is well disguised by your these pants you wear all the time.” It wasn’t presented as a joke so Malik didn’t laugh at it but the seriousness of the words bordered on ridiculous. Altair was all but stroking his chin weighing his options between keeping Malik in shapeless clothing (to hide his assets and thus make him less attractive to other potential mates) or putting him in clothing to make him more sexually appealing (for Altair’s own gain and/or to showcase that he had secured a desirable mate. It was unclear what his motivation was but it most likely involved animalistic thinking). 

“I’m going to the woman’s section,” Malik said.

“Why?” Altair didn’t even sound like he heard what Malik said in the split second before he pressed his lips together and shook his head. “We need to have a serious conversation about your fetish for skirts.”

“You want me to be more sexually attractive to you, _I_ want you to be more sexually attractive to me. It’s perfectly fair.” That earned him a squinty-eyed stare, but Altair couldn’t argue the truth of it. “Now, what size do you wear?”

\--

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> I just got groped in a dressing room by a hot guy in tight jeans
> 
> Which is interesting because I’ve never been on the skirt side of the whole ‘oops my had went up your skirt’ set up.”
> 
> How does this man keep convincing you to wear skirts?
> 
> Was a pretty skirt?
> 
> He’s very convincing
> 
> How’d you like getting groped under your skirt, though?
> 
> Probably more than I should

Altair’s had carefully, purposefully outlined his plan for the whole trip in the hopes that Malik would find it amusing (or offensive) enough to be compelled to go through with it. He wasn’t necessarily married to the notion of making out in a changing room but he was interested in seeing what any other type of clothes save for dark-khaki pants and single-color button downs looked like on Malik. (It was rude to say or think, but the man dressed in a fashion dreadfully reminiscent of someone’s grandfather.) He had been right about jeans looking good on Malik. He hadn’t been wrong about T-shirts either. The soft-thin-cotton of the T-shirt stretched across Malik’s shoulders in a way that properly displayed the broadness of his back and clung to the shape of his body. He had a nice waist and a fantastic ass and the whole t-shirt and jeans combination did a fine job of showing it off.

But then Altair hadn’t expected to be put back in skirts (to be fair, he wasn’t even sure why he hadn’t been) and even if he had thought it would happen, he wasn’t sure he would have expected to end up with his back pressed against a wall, one of his feet on the bench the changing room to give Malik’s hand the space to slid up under the excessive flowing length of the skirt. There was no accounting for how he ended up with one of his hands on Malik’s arm and the other over his head pulling at the top of the stall door because the whole weight of Malik’s body was slowly-but-surely crushing him in place, giving his dick ideas that his brain wasn’t quick enough to outwit. Altair was _hard_ because Malik was looking at him with a singular kind of filthy lust that he hadn’t _yet_ expressed. 

Altair’s heart was thudding so hard in his chest he was getting dizzy and Malik’s hand was inching all the way up, the skirt bunched up at his wrist as it went. It was hard to breath with his heart beating too-fast and his ears listening for the approach of other-shoes or the intermittent sound of the fitting room attendant asking if anyone needed help. Malik was all about appropriate-behavior in public except for when he was rocking his hips up against Altair’s body, grinding against him in slow-slow purposeful rolls as he lazily sucked on Altair’s neck and his hand continued its upward trek across his thighs to grip at his ass. The press of his fingertips was a numbed feeling through the boxer-briefs that he was wearing but there was no telling which one of them was more disappointed by it. 

Altair pulled his other leg up to curl it around Malik’s body and pulled him closer. The skirt ruffled up, stuck down between their bodies and hanging long-and-fluttering off his thigh. Malik made a surprised-and-pleased noise against his throat and Altair tugged the excess of fabric out of the way so when Malik rocked his hips again, there was nothing but the scrape of the brand-new-jeans and his underwear between them. “Kiss me,” Altair said. 

There was a hand on his ass, squeezing on the one side and the pressure of Malik’s body as he leaned up to kiss him. The odd sensation of being _purposefully_ sexualized and the unfamiliar drag of the skirt hanging away from his hips was a great-mounting pleasure. The jeans were scraping down the insides of his legs, Malik was making low-hungry sounds in his throat. Altair had to move his leg up higher and angled his hips so Malik was grinding against his ass and that (oh _that_ ) was a curious kind of sensation. It shifted the focus of Malik’s wandering hand upward, his firm grip settled from the meat of Altair’s ass to press flat-and-constant against his dick still trapped in his pants. 

“Are you finding everything okay?” the woman called from not so far outside of the door.

“Yes ma’am,” Altair answered her. “Thank you.” When he did, Malik looked up at him a cross between amusement, amazement and offense. As if to illustrate the confusion between those three emotions, Malik’s hand worked inside of his underwear to close around his dick. He pulled it free (oh and that was lovely) and jerked his fist up-down in quick-tight motions near the tip. Altair clenched his teeth and forced air through his nose where it was more-or-less soundless because Malik was merciless. His mouth was wet and warm, moving down past Altair’s neck and ducking to the side to nip at his chest through the T-shirt he was still wearing.

“Fuck,” Altair whispered. He dropped one hand from the grip he had on the top of the stall to grab at Malik’s shoulder, at his neck—to offer some sort of warning or condemnation for how the whole absurd situation was wrong. He shouldn’t be _this_ sort of turned on to be backed against a wall and used with blithe indifference. But the skirt was swinging with the motion of Malik’s hand and his hips and Altair’s head rolled back because there was truly no reason in fighting the inevitable. 

“Shit,” Malik whispered against his cheek in the aftermath. His hand (still at last) and his whole body (tense with unfulfilled arousal) were warm and heavy weights. But he looked down between them long enough to say, “you’re going to have to buy this skirt now.”

Altair snorted at that. He put his leg back on the ground and marinated in the warm, contented feeling for a moment before he pulled Malik in a circle by the belt loops, pushed him back against the wall and then dropped down to his knees in front of him.

\--

son-of-no-one: @sass-badger and I will be returning to the internet on April 17th with a special edition of ‘fun fact Friday’ where you will be able to ask Sass whatever you want (10m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one ‘whatever you want’ *except questions about Altair’s penis. (8m ago)

Laziness or bad weather kept them grounded in the hotel room. Malik was tired from constant travel and Altair seemed to be caught between a determined need to get up and move around and the equally important need to lay and do nothing. In the end, indecision sent him down to the hotel gym and Malik spent the time catching up on his very overwhelming e-mail.

He wrote up preliminary drafts of a series of posts (since the current plan was to resume the Sett on the thirteenth of April. That allowed them to build up to the reveal). Then he went through as many e-mails from people as he could possibly stand and only accidentally found the one about the fanart contest that they’d failed to finish. He sorted through the submissions of that, and sent the whole mess to Kadar so he could build some sort of page that would display the many varied offerings.

Altair came back covered in sweat, smelling hot-and-slimy, and headed straight for the shower. They ignored one another until after lunch. Altair laid around looking at his phone and making faces at the texts he was getting in rapid succession while Malik went through Leonardo’s website that showed a variety of his art. It wasn’t that Malik didn’t enjoy art or that he couldn’t tell the difference between something he liked and something he didn’t. It was closer to the truth to say that he had no beauty in his soul. Art was something that required subjective reasoning to understand.

“What about alcohol?” Altair asked. “Do you drink alcohol?”

Malik turned around in the dining room chair he’d been sitting at to look at Altair still paying more attention to his phone than him. “As a moral objection or a religious one?”

“Either?” Altair said. Then he picked himself up off the couch and came over to sit around the corner from him. 

“I don’t drink because I don’t see the point in it. I am not prohibited against doing anything except by my own internal sense of right and wrong, and my own likes and dislikes. If I were to subscribe to any of the teachings of my Mother’s religion, we couldn’t be together.”

“Yeah I heard I’m walking sin,” Altair said. He sighed. “Does it bother you that I drink?”

“It would bother me if you drank in excess or frequently. I’m aware that you enjoy getting drunk with your family as long as I’m not expected to join in or am not insulted for that choice, I don’t really think it matters to me on a personal level.” He closed the laptop since Altair looked like he was settling in to stay. “Why do you ask?”

“I was thinking about the wedding—or the bachelor party. Desmond doesn’t drink, he wouldn’t like strippers. But I was arguing with Ezio about it because he thinks that Desmond should accept that bachelor parties involve alcohol and strippers.” Altair shrugged. “Why do you call it ‘my mother’s religion’?”

Malik had never put thought into that. “Because it is. The whole idea of it came from her. I wasn’t born with that religion, I was given it by her the way I was given my name. I don’t know.”

“I’m bored,” Altair said. But then, “do you want to fuck me?”

“What?” He understood the question but not the abrupt way that it was asked. Before Altair could set in on repeating himself, Malik interrupted him with, “do you want me to? Or is this a rhetorical sort of question?”

“It’s not rhetorical. You just—were so upset that everyone was making you out to be a bottom or whatever but that’s what we’ve been doing—I mean obviously excluding the times when we didn’t have penetrative sex. I just don’t understand if you’re angry about the assumption that you are this thing and how it makes you—less of a man, is that what you said?—or if you’re upset that people have guessed this about you when it is true or if you’re just not fucking me because you’re waiting for permission.” 

Malik attempted to ignore the extraneous implications tangled up in the actual questions. “People who aren’t going to have sex with me shouldn’t care what I enjoy doing when I have sex. The fact that strangers, or even family members or friends, are invested in knowing and labeling what I prefer is actually incredibly annoying. Nobody walks up to—Desmond, or to my brother and asks what they like doing in the bedroom. If Kadar likes having a woman ride his dick, he’s not going to get labeled because of it.” But Kadar was fairly quick to attach himself to the idea of Malik as a bottom and stick with it for years. “What are you actually asking?”

“I’m asking if you’re happy with the way we have sex but also if you want to fuck me because I took it for granted that you would.”

Well that was much less problematic than the word garbage he’d attempted to use to explain it. “I am happy. I do enjoy what we have done. I do want to fuck you but unless it’s something that you have an immediate need for, I am content to wait because it’s not an overwhelming want at the moment.” And he let those words sink in for a second before he said, “are you happy?”

Altair nodded. “Yeah.” Then he sighed and looked over toward the windows at the dreary gray weather outside. He looked back at Malik before he cleared his throat. “Want to go have sex?”

Malik just sighed. “And you say I have no romance.”

“I mean, I can waltz you to the bed singing a love song if you’ve suddenly developed a need for romance.” Altair was very pleased with himself for the offer. “But I get the feeling you’d be just as happy to get picked up and thrown over my shoulder.”

“I would prefer neither currently. Sex is fine though.” He stood up and Altair hopped up to his feet after him, smiling all the way to the bedroom.


	67. Chapter 67

son-of-no-one: unexpected couple arguments: whose pet is better? (25m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, you can’t classify that poor attempt on your part as an argument. I provided detailed, thoughtful commentary and you objected and showed pictures of your dog in sweaters. (22m ago)

Son-of-no-one: what thoughtful commentary? Your argument was literally ‘my cat could eat your dog’. (18m ago)

Sass-Badger: also Sailor is prettier than London. (10m ago)

BestofThree: this seems like the sort of thing that can only be settled by public vote. (8m ago)

Son-of-no-one: POLL TOMORROW, everyone better show up and vote for my dog. (6m ago)

Sass-Badger: they won’t. (1m ago)

The plan had been for Kadar to borrow the car and go see a movie. It was exactly the sort of date that everyone in the world went on, after dark and without supervision. Stephanie was even wearing make-up which was worthy of note if only because she didn’t always bother. Kadar hadn’t worked the exact decision making paradigm as it related to her use of eyeshadow and lipstick but he was sure that there was one. On his part, he wore one of his nicer shirts (not that it mattered since he had the wardrobe of a cartoon character, a shocking repeat of button downs and slacks, no variation allowed) and begged his Mother for the chance to use the car on his own.

Whether she relented because he was persuasive in his desperation or because there was little chance he could get conceivably more damned than he already was, he couldn’t be sure. Her sole condition had been: ‘return it exactly as you borrowed it’ which could have meant ‘don’t crash my car’ or ‘no sex in the backseat’. (For that matter, Kadar hadn’t tried sex in a car but he was on Altair’s side about it. The vehicle was too damn small to bother and Kadar (even at eighteen) wasn’t desperate enough to try it. 

So they were all dressed up, ready to follow through and Kadar couldn’t force his fingers to stop picking at a tear in the leather around the steering wheel and Stephanie hadn’t made a move to get out of the car. 

“Did you want to go?” she asked. Maybe she looked at him when she asked it but her fingers were toying with the hem of her skirt when he glanced at her and she was biting the side of her lip the way she did when she didn’t know _what to say_. 

Kadar couldn’t figure out how to say it was _fucking pointless_ because they were living under constant threat. When he tried to push the words out of his head, they got mixed up in a confusion of sounds. He couldn’t say, _this isn’t going to work out_ but he couldn’t say _lets go see this movie_ either so he was shrugging. 

Stephanie nodded, looked solidly at her own knuckles picking at the hem of her skirt. Then she pulled in a breath and pushed it out again, all shaky and _damp_ , “please just tell me,” she said to her knuckles (not to him). “What is it that you can’t tell me?” That she said toward him, with her head turned and her hair falling forward over her shoulder. 

It wasn’t fair because he had been programmed (at birth, by life, he didn’t even know) to preserve the peace. He said, “I’m really happy that you got into the college you wanted.” There was more (of course there was) and Stephanie knew it because her eyes were pink and the tip of her nose was blushing up like a rose as she nodded her head. “I just—I think you’re so amazing and I do love you. I really do, but I can’t do a long distance relationship and I don’t want to go to Hawaii.” If he were braver (or kinder, or anything) he would have looked at her when he said it. He wouldn’t have been staring at the keys still hanging out of the ignition. “I just couldn’t figure out how to tell you.”

Stephanie sniffled, (wet and snotty) and then cleared her throat. Her voice was raw-as-wounds. “I really want to go to Hawaii. It’s what I’ve wanted since I was a kid.” When he looked sideways she was licking her lips and wiping her fingers across her cheeks to push the tears that were making a disaster of her mascara. 

“I didn’t want to ruin it for you,” he said. Because he hadn’t wanted that. “I am so happy that you go what you wanted.”

Her face was a confusion of a crying-smile and tight eyebrows. Her hands were caught between her face and her lap. She said, “I don’t want to lose you either.” Every word was a slow crawling descent into the cough-of-a-sob she couldn’t fight anymore. Kadar watched it beat her shoulders until she pressing her hands against her face and then grabbing for her purse to get a tissue. Every part of him wanted to feel the way she did, to experience the same sort of pain that was hiccupping out of her throat against her will. He wanted to be _sad_ because he (thought he) _loved_ her. 

But the best he managed was saying, “I’m sorry.”

It was Stephanie’s hand that caught him by the sleeve that curled around his neck and pulled him sideways to hug her. Her face was hot against his neck as he closed his eyes and rubbed her back. She wasn’t crying (exactly) or not crying (precisely) but something between the two, caught in a state of extended misery that he couldn’t match. “I knew you wouldn’t come,” she said against his neck. Her lips were smears on his skin, the words caught in the little folds at the base of his neck. “I was so mad at you.”

“You can be mad,” he said. He sat back enough to look at her face and her hand curled around his. Her laugh was like another sob. Kadar kissed her forehead because all-his-life, his Mother had kissed-his-forehead (in times like these). He was looking at the clock (and not at Stephanie), “I think we missed the start of this movie,” he said.

“I don’t want to go,” she answered. She sat back in the seat and used her tissue to mop up the mess of make-up around her eyes. When she was finished, she waved her hands at her face and let out a breath like a whistle. “Are we done now? Is this how we break up? Are we still going to prom?”

“I still want to go with you if you still want to go,” Kadar said. “I don’t want to break up, I mean, not until we have to—what do you want?”

“I don’t want _this_ ,” Stephanie said. Then she looked out the window and sneered at the movie theater in the distance before turning back to look at him. “Maybe we can go get a dessert at the diner or something?”

Kadar nodded. “Yeah, sure.” He started the car again and Stephanie buckled herself back into her seat. He made it out to the light before the suffocating silence of the car made him too uncomfortable to tolerate it another moment. So he said, “are you going to stay in the dorms at school?”

“Um, yeah,” Stephanie answered. “I’m pretty sure. Me and my parents are flying there to check it all out in June. I meant to tell you. But I’m pretty sure that I’ll stay in the dorms at least to start. Have you heard anything from the colleges you applied to?”

“Not yet,” Kadar said. “Do you think you’ll stay in Hawaii when you finish school?”

“That would be amazing,” Stephanie said, “but I don’t know. I haven’t actually been there yet.” She laughed (the way she did when she discovered hole in her own logic), “but it seems like it would be amazing.” She fell into telling him about her romantic dreams of Hawaii and he listened to her talk because every part of his body had fallen into missing her while she was _right there_.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Apparently Federico didn’t tell everyone you were dating a man.
> 
> Why not?
> 
> Maybe he has the ability to keep a secret?
> 
> He’s an Auditore
> 
> I thought they only knew how to mislead the public
> 
> Claudia is furious we won’t tell her who Sass is.
> 
> She’ll get over it. Stop texting me, I’m trying to get laid
> 
> Then why are you responding?
> 
> Because he was in the shower.

Malik laughed when Altair picked him up. He was shower-damp, dressed in nothing but a lazy towel that was easily discarded on the floor where it landed. “What is your plan here?” didn’t seem like an objection with Malik’s legs around his waist and his arm curled happily around his shoulder. His breath was a breezy sound when Altair pushed him against the wall. He cocked up an eyebrow to Malik’s laugh at that. “You think so?”

Altair nodded. He was already naked because it was expedient and Malik leaned his weight back against his shoulders on the wall and considered it. The brief seconds that it took him to arrive at a conclusion were painfully long while Altair waited (and contemplated being turned down and where else he’d prefer to have sex currently). “You are slightly heavier than my usual partner but I think we can manage it.”

“I believe in you,” Malik promised. Then he wiggled up against the wall, and said, “you have to put your arms under my legs though.” He was very helpful about it but it wasn’t until Altair was pushing into him that he tipped his head back and chuckled in a wry-and-wise way. “You little asshole, this is why you were fingering me for a half an hour.”

“You liked it,” Altair mumbled back. “I also sucked your dick.” He might have said more save for how Malik’s body was oh-so-wonderfully warm around him and Malik was tugging him forward to kiss, crushing their bodies together in a way that couldn’t have been excessively comfortable for him. 

“I did like it,” Malik assured him. Then he leaned back against the wall again. “Come on, fuck me.”

\--

> ### April 11, 2009: a sudden poll
> 
> This poll is brought to you by Son-of-no-one’s insistence that his dog is better than my cat. While both animals are dear to us, only one of them can be prettier by public vote. So please vote for:
> 
> [London](https://40.media.tumblr.com/509e03d7c75581b745f3b842a9fbfde3/tumblr_nw46488n3W1ra6cdio1_250.jpg)
> 
> Or 
> 
> [Sailor](https://41.media.tumblr.com/29f64f291b98ca5d87b3e0cc6cecfd95/tumblr_nw46488n3W1ra6cdio2_400.jpg)
> 
> **Tagged:** _F: Polls, I: Altair is embarrassing_  
> 

Stephanie came over to study because that (like the movie of the night before) had been a plan they’d had for longer-than-a-week. They were operating on business-as-usual and that must have been why as soon as his Mother said, “I am going to meet a friend for lunch,” with her hand on the back of the chair opposite Kadar and her face caught between reproach and inevitability. Kadar didn’t blush but he thought that he might have been close to it. 

“Have fun,” he said. He turned his attention to his books because studying was _important_ and Mother narrowed her eyes at his excessively casual response. She left anyway, and Stephanie and him meandered through to the end of the chapter, discussing what was significant. Each sentence was shorter than the one before because they were all-alone and his body knew exactly how hers felt all around him and she was leaning into his side with her fingers worrying at her hair. “We could go lay on my bed and finish this,” he said.

“We could,” Stephanie agreed. She was always grateful to agree with his brilliant ideas. (Once or twice he’d ignored the unspoken signals until she finally got around to dragging him to someone’s bedroom and it never failed to amuse him.) They were all set to study in his room and that must have been why they left all the books right there on the dining room table. Her hand on his dragged him up the stairs and around the turn to his bedroom. 

Kadar couldn’t work out if he was angry-or-sad most days of the week but he could work Stephanie out of her clothes with her tongue in his mouth and his eyes closed. She was gloriously naked—slim and fit, pushing him back on the bed. He crept backward with his elbows digging in the bed and his heels pushing him up until his head was on the pillows.

Stephanie stayed on top, fucking down onto his dick with hard-relentless-slaps of her hips and her hands digging into his shoulder and his upper arms. She kissed him with a refined sort of anger like poison, it spread through him and it gave him something to _feel_. He was as angry at her as she was at him. It was her mouth biting at his but his hands wrapped around her hips and his body rolling them over. He _fucked_ her in a way that he hadn’t _ever_ and she scratched her nails down his chest to draw blood and dug her heels into his back like leaving bruises. 

But after, Stephanie sat on the edge of the bed while he traced the long bleeding stripes with his thumb. She had both hands in her hair, leaning forward so the curve of her back was all knobby bones beneath skin. There was a huff of something like tears in her voice and she was shaking her head even before she looked back at him. “I—” she said and then stopped. “I think I’m going to go.”

“If you think you should,” Kadar said. He wasn’t going to fight the person that was trying to tear him to ribbons. But he helped her find all her clothes and got dressed enough to walk her to the door. She lingered in the doorway between the warmth of his house and the still-cold air outside. “I’m sorry,” he said because it felt like he should. With all his clothes on, there was no proof that anything happened. 

Stephanie looked so _sad_. “Me too,” she said. When she kissed him that time, it was an apology: sweet and confusing. Then she left and Kadar closed the door after her. The whole of the house was too quiet so he gave up the pretense of studying to take a shower and went back to bed, wallowing in the well-used stink of his sheets until Sailor came to find him. The cat invited himself up under the blankets, worming along until his head popped out the top by Kadar’s face. Sailor meowed at him and reached a paw out to slap him on the face (without claws) before Kadar caught up to his demands and rubbed the top of his head. 

“I voted for you,” Kadar said to the cat. Sailor settled on his chest with all the presence of a true king, completely unconcerned about the opinion of others. He squinted his eyes shut as he set into purring. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> You cannot wear a skirt to my wedding
> 
> Why would I?
> 
> Lucy told me I had to tell you
> 
> Well, you do have to wear a skirt to mine. I told myself to tell you.
> 
> The truly amazing part of this childish comeback is that you’re entirely serious
> 
> I told Malik I’d wear a dress to our wedding. So I’m the bride that means you’re the bridesmaid.
> 
> You might need to find someone that loves you more for that

Lucy was not enjoying planning the wedding; Claudia wasn’t actually there to help with planning a wedding. Between the mismatched intensity of their desire to be helpful, the three of them ended up sitting around the kitchen table testing new mixed drinks. Lucy’s face was a pretty-petal pink the way it went when she was drinking (and laughing). 

“You never even thought about it though?” Claudia asked. While Lucy went pink, Claudia’s face flushed out the same red color of her brothers with exertion. “I mean, I expected that Desmond would have no useful ideas but you’re a woman. You haven’t ever thought about your wedding?”

Lucy was shaking her head (no) to the drink she was tasting for him, turning out of the seat to cross the room and spit into the sink before she bent over to rinse the flavor out of her mouth with the tap water. When she straightened up again, she wiped her mouth with a towel hanging on the stove and said, “well I thought I’d be getting married in my backyard in some dress my Mother borrowed from my cousins and we’d have a reception at a pool hall the same as every other wedding my family’s ever had.”

Claudia just sighed. “So you have no opinions at all?”

Lucy shrugged, dropped the towel over the sink and then said, “I don’t want Altair to wear a dress—make sure you tell him that.” She came back to pick up the cup and carried it over to dump it out too (and rinsed it) before she came back. “I’m serious. No dresses, no skirts, no whatever the hell him and Sass have going on at my wedding. He needs to show up and look traditional.”

“I think I’ve already mentioned it but I’ll tell him again.” 

Claudia sighed with her face against her palm and her fingers flipping pages in the magazine. “Is this new skirt fetish a thing that works for him or Sass? Who is Sass? Why didn’t Federico tell me who Sass was? I understand why he didn’t tell Ezio but I am trustworthy. When are they even supposed to be back?”

Desmond snorted.

“Who does that skirt thing work for? I can’t figure out what gets Altair off. I mean, besides having people sit on his face apparently—did you read that one sex Saturday story with the girl that said she didn’t even see his dick but she had like four orgasms?” Lucy made a disgruntled noise under her breath, “and he apparently got off on that. I’m just saying more men need to figure out how to come without having to stick their dick in something.”

“I don’t actually read those,” Desmond offered but that didn’t matter because Claudia drew in a loud breath and slapped her hand down on the table across the glossy pictures in the magazine. 

“That makes me so angry!” Claudia shouted. Then she looked embarrassed to have been so angry. “I don’t even care about what gets the little whore off; I just want to find some semi-decent human being that is good at sex and isn’t related to me! No! I get fucking Ezio who is prettier than anyone in the family, and fucking skirt-wearing-cunnilingus expert Altair and everyone else in the world barely understand how to get their dick into a vagina much less what to do once they are there.”

Lucy was giggling halfway through the rant and full-out laughing at the end. “You have to train them, Claudia. Ezio is not that pretty.”

“Fuck you, Ezio is so.” Claudia picked up her shot glass and swallowed it in one smooth motion before slapping it back on the table. “Even Desmond would have sex with Ezio if he had the chance.”

“He’s my cousin,” Desmond offered. The fact that Desmond also wasn’t gay wasn’t as relevant. Claudia didn’t even seem to believe him that he wouldn’t sleep with Ezio just because they were related. But she waved that away. “I don’t think Sass thinks he’s pretty?”

“Yes well Sass likes Altair so there’s no accounting for taste.” Then she huffed at the pictures in the magazine. When she looked up at Lucy her eyebrows were offensively honest. “You’ll disappear if you wear white. Maybe you need to get something pink or cream or off white. Give Desmond a fighting chance of finding you under the dress later that night.”

“Oh my God,” Desmond muttered. “I’m going to go so you two can talk about sex.”

“Prude,” Lucy murmured at him. She pulled him down and kissed him before he left and waved at him with flirty fingertips as he went. But he heard her saying, “I was thinking about that too.”

\--

son-of-no-one: thank you everyone that voted for my adorable dog. You have made me the happiest man alive. (13m ago)

sass-badger: ok but you only won because London is still a puppy and Sailor is a full grown cat. (10m ago)

son-of-no-one: I am not that interested in the specifics. I won. (9m ago)

Kadar did not get out of bed on Sunday and he told himself it was because he didn’t feel well. His Mother came to check on him at eleven—long after he should have been out of his bed—and felt his forehead and frowned at him when he said he just didn’t feel good.

“Would you like some soup?” she asked but even the words seemed to convey that she did not necessarily believe him. The suspicion in her face didn’t seem to have any direction to carry itself in. So it meandered around on ‘unsure’ and never reached a fully realized answer. 

Not eating would incite more worry from his Mother so Kadar nodded his head and pulled himself out of bed. Mother made a worried face at him when he arrived in the kitchen (fully dressed) and sat down opposite her at the steaming cup of quick noodle soup. She sat with her eyes narrow and that puzzled pinch on her face until she said, “how was the movie on Friday?”

Kadar stirred the noodles in the broth and watched the steam rising in little puffs and swirls. “Um, we didn’t make it. I—I told Stephanie that we would have to break up before she left for college because I didn’t want a long distance relationship and I didn’t want to go to Hawaii.” He shrugged.

Mother seemed to relax at that news and sat back in her seat with one hand in her lap and the other lingering on the table. “You are certain that is what you want? I thought that you cared about this girl a great deal.”

“I do. I think she’s _amazing_ and sometimes I think that I could be happy being at her side while she takes on the whole world but then I think—that’s all I would do. I don’t have the same goals as she does. The things that are the most important to me aren’t the same for her. I don’t know.”

He expected a reproach. He expected his Mother to be quick to chastise him for jumping into a physical relationship with someone he knew he wasn’t going to marry (because he had to have known, even from the beginning) but she only nodded. “It is wise that you are able to see this now rather than prolong something that you cannot be happy with.” There was more but Mother did not say it. Rather than whatever she had meant to say (that reproach he was waiting for) she said, “did you want to go get something else to eat? There is only the two of us, we could easily afford to go get a meal.”

Kadar wanted to go back to bed but Mother’s face was lingering on an edge of worry so he nodded his head and put a smile on his face. “Sure,” he said. “Do you want to pick? You know I can eat anything.”

“Perhaps the buffet,” she said. “Then we can both find something we’d like.” She went to get her purse and Kadar stirred the soup a few more times before dragged his body up out of the chair. 

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> For the record, Malik doesn’t think Ezio is attractive.
> 
> While that makes me happy because it eliminates a good half of my competition
> 
> It’s almost unbelievable.
> 
> Ezio is basically perfect
> 
> He’s too pretty.
> 
> But he went through his face hair thing, so look up pictures of that
> 
> I honestly didn’t think that would make me change my opinion.
> 
> There’s only 2 people in the world that wouldn’t want Ezio
> 
> Malik and who else?
> 
> Cristina, apparently.

“Why are you smiling?” Malik asked. He had declined to join Altair in the hotel gym but he’d gone to swim (or just float in the water as he often did when there was nobody else around to disturb him). He was standing with his arm folded over the edge of it. Despite the fact that his body was perfectly amazing to look at, he had insisted on having a rashguard shirt with his swim trunks. It covered the scars (that Malik still didn’t like him touching or look at for too long) but was tight enough to show the natural curves and tight dips of his body. 

“Nothing,” Altair said. He set his phone on the table and pulled his shirt off. His whole body was covered in sweat from the workout, in a state of half-dried so it was tacky-and-sticky but not yet gritty. He kicked his shoes off and Malik rolled his eyes even before Altair jumped into the deep end of the pool. When he came up out of the water, Malik was turned around and leaning back against the edge. He stayed still and let Altair swim over to him. “What are we going to do today?”

“Drive back to New York like you said we were going to for the past three days.” Malik looped his arm over Altair’s shoulder and pulled him down to kiss him. The softness of the kiss was a direct contrast to the sharpness of the words. 

“But what if we just found something to do on the way there?” Altair’s fingers slid up under the bottom of the shirt, spread out across his lower back. “There has to be something to do?”

“Of course,” Malik retorted. He lifted an eyebrow with his mouth in a flat line when Altair’s right hand pushed under the waistband of his trunks. “No,” he said. And it was so _utterly_ deadpan that Altair was laughing. He pulled back, kept his hands on Malik’s body and only just heard the exclamation of “don’t you fuc—” before he hauled Malik up and threw him into the water. 

“You bitch,” Malik snarled at him when he came back up out of the water. He didn’t waste time in coming after Altair to get even either.

\--

> ### April 13, 2009: Another Announcement.
> 
> If you follow @son-of-no-one, you are undoubtedly aware that we will be featuring another Fun Fact Friday this Friday, April 17, 2009. This special edition will feature special guests coffee4college and Shirley-Templar who will ask the questions that you send in for Altair and myself. We will do our best to answer your questions, unless of course, they violate the rules. All questions can be submitted to the usual place.
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> **Tagged:** _F: News or Announcement, F: Fun Fact Friday_  
> 

Kadar was awake before the alarm, rolled onto his side, staring at the glowing-red-numbers shifting shapes until they finally worked around to five thirty. His Mother was awake in the house somewhere, moving around and getting ready for the morning prayers.

Five thirty in the morning, Kadar didn’t believe in anything with his finger sliding the button on the side of clock to silence it just as the first bleat sounded from the tinny speaker on the top. He drew in a breath and let it out again, tucked his arms back under his blanket and laid there to watch another five-six-seven-nine minutes pass buy. Each little number dipping and reshaping every sixty seconds. 

Mother’s knock on the door didn’t startle him. She said, “you need to get up now.”

Kadar said, “five more minutes Mom?”

“Only five,” was her response. Even that sounded as if she did not truly want to give it. He couldn’t see her face (just as well, he couldn’t deal with her worry anymore) but he could watch those numbers on his clock mutating one after the other. 

Five minutes later, (no more or less) Kadar pushed his blankets back and pulled himself up to sitting on the side of the bed. He rubbed his face with both hands and scratched at the long-thin lines on his chest that were mostly healed (by now) but still itched. When he got up, he shuffled only far enough to get his clothes. 

The day went the same, Kadar laid in his seat at school, half-listening to the drone of the teacher’s lectures, the sound of the chattering of the students all around him. He didn’t go to the cafeteria for lunch because the thought of that _noise_ was too exhausting to contemplate. So he went to sit in the doorway outside of his next class, back against one wall, feet against the other as he slouched in place and watched the big clock on the far wall tick-tick-ticking away.

\--

>   
>  **Leonardo**
> 
>   
>  Ezio is actually furious he does not know who Sass is.
> 
> Please tell me that you will be revealing the truth soon.
> 
> I simply will not be able to keep from laughing at him if this continues on too much.
> 
> How can you have sex with him?
> 
> Like, how dense must you be?
> 
> He is not bright but he is exceptionally good looking.
> 
> Very much like your own boyfriend.
> 
> Tell me how long it took him to connect the first post of your blog that gave the day and location of your meeting with your name?
> 
> We’re putting the video up on Wednesday

They were no closer to New York Monday night than they were Monday morning. The most they’d managed was finding a series of antique stores were Altair showed off how much he knew about very old things. Malik liked listening to him talk (if only because Altair related knowledge with a sort of honest appreciation that was absent from most of his attempts at communication). 

Dinner had been some Indian place that smelled divine on the outside and was ordinary at best on the inside. They found a hotel and watched shit evening TV while they lazed about digesting their meal.

“That guy on the wedding dress show sounds like Ezio,” Altair mumbled. “The voice-over guy. You know except the Italian accent.” He hadn’t really been watching it (but texting someone or several someone’s during most of it). “Why are we watching this? Research?”

“Kadar likes it,” Malik said. He was laying across the couch, resting his head on the pillow in Altair’s lap. “He gets mad when they pick stupid dresses.”

Altair looked over at the screen again and made a non-committal frown. “So when I go shopping for my wedding dress I should take your brother along?” But then he set the phone on the table to the side and turned so he could see the TV better. “Is that against his religion?”

“Well you’re not asking him to wear it. I don’t think it matters. But if you wanted to look good in the wedding dress you should take him with you. You can go on the show—I’m sure they’d love that.” Even if they didn’t, Ezio’s dumb show would love it. Malik looked up at Altair when a commercial came on. Altair was looking down at him, coiling his fingers up in Malik’s undershirt to hitch it up higher and higher so he could get his hand inside of it. “You are not getting laid after you threw me in the pool this morning.”

“Nothing?” Altair asked. “What about a quick feel?”

“No.”

“What about a long feel?”

“No.” Malik pushed Altair’s hand out of his shirt to prove his point and smiled at his pout.

“What about a blowjob?” He already knew the answer before Malik hesitated because he was extracting himself from underneath Malik to get on his knees next to the couch. It should have been embarrassing how easy it was to get aroused by the sight of Altair on his knees. The wet part of his lips was a sound that was slowly being trained into Malik’s body as a signal to get hard. “Feel free to keep watching this show.”

“I will,” Malik mumbled.

“Don’t let me distract you.” Altair was pulling his pants down, fussing about how Malik still had his socks on. When he had Malik stripped he had to take the time to take his own shirt off and work his pants down (if not all the way off) before he glanced over at the girl on the screen crying about the dress she was wearing. “I can’t believe you’re watching this.”

“I can’t believe you still don’t have your mouth on my dick,” Malik retorted.

Altair bit the inside of his thigh (just hard enough to hurt a little) before he settled into place like he meant to be there a good-long while.

\--

> ### April 14, 2009: Troublesome Tuesdays
> 
> Dear Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad,
> 
> I understand that you have a problem with stealing blankets and I appreciate that you have made attempts to remedy your issue by providing a second set of blankets. However, it has become an increasingly problematic issue wherein you not only hog and steal your own blankets from any other person who might need them but you have also started taking the blankets that do not belong to you.
> 
> As such, I would like to offer you a gentle warning, if you try to take my blankets one more time I will kick you out of bed in the very most literal sense. The couch is a cold place, Mr. Ibn-La’Ahad.
> 
> **Tagged:** _F: Troublesome Tuesdays, I: Altair is a blanket thief_
> 
> • **Son-of-No-One**  
>  You act like you don’t already try to kick me out of bed. My shins have bruises to prove how incapable of keeping your feet to yourself you are.

Kadar wasn’t hiding because if thirteen years of public school had taught him anything, it had taught him that anyone who looked hard enough could find him no matter where he went. But he was sitting at the large desks in the back of the red hall, resting his head on his book bag, watching the numbers on his phone tick off time until he could go to his next class. He didn’t look up when the footsteps came toward him, but glanced sideways when a chair scraped across the ground right up next to him. He didn’t lift his head but Jenna crossed her arms on the desk and laid her head on them. 

Her eyes were the sort of eyes that you could spend a while staring at: bright and clear, a constant mix of hazel and green that turned a vague kind of blue depending on what she wore. Right now they were caught in anxious concern even as her pretty-pretty face was staring at him with such acute, _pained_ awareness. “Can I help?” she asked him. But not _what’s wrong_ and not _is something wrong_ the way the other voices that came in and out of importance around him had fallen into asking. They accepted his quick smiles and his denials and left him alone. 

Kadar tried to smile but it felt flat on his face, stretched all out of shape by the nothingness that was filling up the inside of his head. Stephanie was somewhere, he’d seen her earlier in the day and she had waved at him without making the most passing attempt to come see him. It didn’t _hurt_ because he was worried that she would find him, that she would want something from him that he didn’t have in him to give. Those scratches she left on his chest were itchy-company, a sweet reminder of how angry she was about-it-all. 

Jenna’s hand found his where it was resting under the table against his thigh and she pulled it into the space between their legs to curl her fingers through his. She said, “I have a car, I can take you home?”

That was a bad idea on top of a bad idea and he should have told her exactly how unhelpful it would be to hurt Stephanie (more) and incite the wrath of his Mother (twice) but he was nodding his head while Jenna was already pulling him up to his feet. She held his hand through the halls, kept him close enough to keep the teachers from clucking their tongues at their public displays of affection (holding hands was public-school-sin) until they made it to the doors by the cafeteria. She slid out into the courtyard where the groups of less-popular kids were starting to fill up the empty spaces left by the melting snow. Out into the parking lot with quick-quick feet to her tiny car in the back of the lot. 

They drove in quiet, listening to the lunch hour on the radio. When they got to his house, he said, “are you going back to school?”

Jenna said, “is there anything I can do?” she asked. “God—my Mom has depression problems,” she said, “some days she doesn’t even get out of bed. I _hate it_ because she’s not even a person on those days. She did it to herself,” Jenna said (with so much venom), “she ruined her own life. I don’t feel sorry for her anymore. I _can’t_ , you know? I can’t let her drag me down anymore. But—” Jenna was just looking at him, all worry-and-fear in her face wide-open and raw. “Whatever you need, whatever would help. I’m here.”

“I’ll be fine,” Kadar said. He even managed a smile. “I don’t know, I think I’ve got senioritis. I don’t want to graduate because I don’t have any idea what I’m going to do after that. It’s not that serious.”

But Jenna didn’t believe him.

“It’ll pass,” Kadar said instead. “It just got the best of me today.” Then he motioned up toward his house. “Thanks. You should go back to school. You don’t want them to take away your lunch pass.” Then he pushed open the door of her tiny car and headed toward the door. The engine didn’t turn off but Jenna kicked open her own door to run up and hug him. 

Her arms were tight around him, her body was a warm, pleasant weight and he put his arm around her and his hand on her back because she _expected_ it but he didn’t feel _anything_ , exactly. Jenna hugged him all the harder and then pulled back and nodded. “Rest then. I’ll see you tomorrow?” But before she was back to her car, she was saying, “I’ll call you tonight. Ok?”

“Sure,” Kadar said. “Unless my Mom takes my phone for skipping classes.” He let himself in and closed the door behind him before Jenna left. He made it as far as the couch and laid there thinking about sending Malik a text. Kadar thought he’d tell him all about how he was skipping classes now, or how Jenna-the-beautiful girl hated her mother and loved _him_ but every time he tried to compose something worth sending, the words turned gray and dusty in his head so he laid the phone on his chest. Aquila jumped up onto his chest and meowed cautiously before settling down in a tight ball of black fur. Sailor was on his window ledge, flicking his tail up and down in aggravation at this show of disrespect but it clearly wasn’t enough to make him move from the warm spot.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> SASS IS A MAN
> 
> I see you saw the video already
> 
> Leonardo told me actually.
> 
> He said he couldn’t handle it a moment longer.
> 
> It is obvious now. Considering the sketchbooks full of his picture Leonardo has.
> 
> Considering Leoanrdo is gay
> 
> Shut up.

London was especially annoying on Wednesday. She greeted him at the door when he got home from work. She took half an hour to find a good place to relieve herself outside and then whimpered about how cold she was all the way back to the apartment. Lucy was getting up for work as he was finally going to bed after work. London was whimpering next to the bed after Lucy kissed him good-bye and left. 

“No,” Desmond said when he put her out of the room.

But she laid against the door and _cried_ , in long yowls and sorry yips, huffing little puppy noises of the deepest agony. 

“No,” he said when he threw a pillow at the door. That bought him silence for a minute before she came back again, yowling all the harder now that she’d gotten a response.

“No,” he said when he opened the door and bent down to pick her up by the scruff at the back of her neck. She yipped happily all the way to the bed. She attacked his hair when he pulled the blankets up, and then she jumped around until she found a spot just behind his head where she curled up in a ball and fell asleep. 

\--

> ### April 15, 2009: Wordless Wednesdays: now with words! 
> 
> [Video skit of Altair ‘coming out of the closet’]
> 
> **Tagged:** : _F: Wordless Wednesdays, I: Altair is Embarassing_  
> 

Kadar watched the video in the morning before he went to school. It had posted itself automatically at midnight which mean Malik had set the whole week (probably) to post itself. The joke was stupid (which was the very best kind) but the way Altair looked at his brother was the sort of thing that would sway their Mother into understanding. It didn’t even matter what sort of bastard Altair really was because he _saw_ Malik exactly how he was and he _loved_ everything he saw. It was in his face.

It was a nice thing to wrap himself up, a fairy tale to insulate the day around him. Kadar kept it in his head, used it to fix the old smile on his face and sat up in his classes (since Mother had come home the night before and lectured him for an hour about how it didn’t matter how sad he was about having to break up with his girlfriend because women were brief and education was _eternal_ ). 

He thought he’d go find Stephanie during lunch and apologize to her for failing to be a person for a few days. But she found him six feet from the cafeteria doors and dragged him by the shirt out into the courtyard amid the catcalling yelps of stupid boys with nothing better to do with their time. Outside was empty (too early to have crowds, he supposed) and she tugged him until they were far enough from the door that they wouldn’t be heard. Then she let him go and put her hands on her hips. 

“So you have to dump me, and you just _happen_ to catch a ride home with Jenna yesterday?”

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Kadar said. It wasn’t a lie (really), “Jenna offered to take me home.”

“Oh I’m sure she did,” Stephanie snapped at him. Then she laughed a caustic little snort of a laugh. “And I’m just stupid because I thought that we were really breaking up because I _actually_ have aspirations. I thought, it’s fair because you’ve never made me any kind of promises and we hadn’t ever talked about what we were going to do after high school. I didn’t realize that I was just holding you back from getting _Jenna_!”

Kadar rolled his eyes at that. “I didn’t do anything with _Jenna_.” 

“Sure you didn’t, and I should just believe you because you said so? What was all that you said about how you still loved me and you still wanted to go to prom?”

“That’s _true_ ,” Kadar shouted back. The words were loud and his chest was brewing up with anger (oh-and wasn’t that _refreshing_ after the bleak gray nothing). “I’m not the one that—that-- _assaulted_ you and walked out. I’m not the one that’s ignoring you!”

“You’re not even _trying_!” Stephanie shouted back at him. “So you know what? Let’s not put it off another minute because there’s _no_ point in dragging this out. You’re _free_ from me. You can go _fuck_ Jenna if that’s what you want.” The word was like a slap and Stephanie’s eyes filled with tears was the sort of thing that might have sent him stumbling across apologies (two weeks ago) but he was standing there with his arms across his chest and his teeth grating together until his jaw was _aching_. 

“Fine,” he said. “Whatever you want.”

Stephanie shook her head and looked back at the door. “What I want doesn’t matter. This is what you wanted. I just can’t—I can’t wake up every day wondering when you’ll get around to saying you’re done. So, we’re finished. It’s over. Good bye.” 

“Au revoir,” he said back. 

Stephanie was crying when she went back inside and he stood out in the cold and watched her pass by the windows on her way to the nearest bathroom. Kadar was sucking cold air in through his nose, trying to find a way to calm the red-red-fury in his chest but it was boiling and boiling until he couldn’t stand still another minute. When he moved, it felt like it was sizzling across his skin and he went to yank open the door to find his corner in the back of the red hall to sit in. 

The rest of the day was a blur of annoying distractions, a constant aggravation of noise and broken pencil lead from how hard he cut his notes into paper. 

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> I CANNOT BELIEVE YOU’RE DATING A MAN.
> 
> I can
> 
> I can too. Let us be honest.
> 
> So you don’t have to wait for us to get back there
> 
> No I want to meet him. He’s cute.
> 
> We should be there tomorrow.

Driving was the only distraction that kept them both away from the internet. Malik looked aggravated at having no clear idea of what was happening in the greater world beyond their car. Altair was content not to know what the media was doing with this information they were given. His public relations staff were probably cursing his name (for that matter, his Aunt and Uncle probably weren’t please about any of his life’s choices either). But it was safe in the car.

“Are you driving purposefully slow?”

Altair shrugged. “Once we get back to civilization, your life belongs to the public, Malik. I know you want to know what people of think of you but it’s the worst kind of addiction. The less you know about them, the happier you’ll be.” He glanced over and caught Malik frowning out the window. “But, I mean, we should probably figure out what kind of talk show we want to sell our story to because they’re going to hound the hell out of us until someone gets us.” He leaned his elbow against the car door and drove with his fingertips. “Does your Mom watch any of talk shows or news programs?”

“Is ‘none of them’ an option?” Malik turned away from the window. “You’re already rich, I don’t want to be sold. We have your video page and my blog, that’s free access to our story. One that we control.” Then he growled in aggravation. “Drive faster. You can distract me from the internet once we’re there. You’re going forty in a seventy five. If the other drivers don’t kill you, I will.” Then he waved his hand impatiently until Altair accelerated. “Thank you.”

\--

son-of-no-one: I am pleasantly surprised that a good portion of you have refrained from slinging filthy insults at me. I expected so many more slurs. (21m ago)

Sass-badger: RT: “guyfawkes23: I believe the greatest outcry is from the participants in the fan art contest that realize how wrong they were in their portrayal of Sass,” indeed the entire Saltair fandom seems to be in uproar. (20m ago)

horse: @sass-badger, YOU NEVER TOLD ME YOU WERE MAN! (19m ago)

Sass-badger: well I didn’t tell @son-of-no-one either. (16m ago)

Sass-badger: all jesting aside, while the outpouring of support has been, quite frankly, a relief from the worry that my identity would be received negatively, there are still several people who have felt justified in (15m ago)

Sass-Badger: leaving anonymous and non-anonymous hate on my blog and at the twitter. You are all completely welcome to your own morals and religious beliefs much the same as I am. You are also welcome to shut up(14m ago)

Sass-Badger: There’s no excuse for hate. (12m ago)

The evening news picked up the story like it was a raging wildfire in a residential area. The whole fantastic viral sensation of the petition and the lingering, lagging, drag of not-knowing who Sass-badger really was reached a fever point in the evening entertainment news tripping over themselves to be the first to reveal that Sass was, in fact, a man. 

Thursday morning, everyone at school knew _everything_ and anyone who hadn’t walked into the school knowing that Kadar’s big brother was fucking a celebrity, they knew it by the time they made it to their homeroom.

So it was: “I thought your people couldn’t be gay.”

But it was also, “so did you like, know this whole time? Why was it such a big secret? Was it a secret because you’re ashamed of him?”

Kadar bit his lips until the taste of blood was in his mouth, walked through the halls with his head down, ignoring the whispers that followed him around. The girl from the prom committee was running after him in the hall and he ducked into the bathroom just to get away from her. He expected to find it empty (the bell was ringing over his head) but he ran face-first into Kelsey trying to walk out of the bathroom. Kelsey had been his friend in Elementary school when the other kids were calling him any name but his own and all the teachers thought Kelsey was a girl. They played together on the playground because it was better than avoiding the stupid kids on their own. 

But Kelsey outgrew him in middle school with his polished-white-teeth and his sudden popularity. Kelsey fell in with Scott-Simmons and the others, making himself an all-American boy. Kadar was a foreigner (no matter what) and Kelsey had gotten a taste of something like belonging and he’d never given it up. When he stepped back from the impact of knocking into Kadar, his mouth twisted up in a contemplative gleam.

“Sorry,” Kadar mumbled.

Kelsey nodded and spread his arm to the side, let Kadar go past him like he wasn’t going to say anything at all about it. The bell for the start of class finished ringing and a teacher was banging his hand on the open doorway of the bathroom shouting, “everyone should be in class!”

Kadar was halfway to a stall when Kelsey’s voice (so smooth and so low) interrupted the motion of his feet. He said, “your Mother must be so proud of her little faggot sons, huh?” But he was already walking out before Kadar could even _think_ of a reply to that impressive level of ignorance. 

\--

> Malik
> 
> Malik.
> 
> I need your help
> 
> I feel like I’m drowning
> 
> What happened? 
> 
> Kadar?
> 
> Kadar what happened?

It was a hopeless cause, sending texts under his desk. Kadar had a fine-tuned sensation of being too-closely watched. The teacher had started the class with a curt slap of the ruler against his desk and the stern reminder that they did not chatter about their personal lives in his class. But he turned to look at Kadar with the most blatant stare of disgust that any person had ever spared him. 

Kelsey wasn’t in his class, but Clyde was. The girls that wanted to know what Altair looked-like-really (in person) and the ones that wanted to know all about whether or not he hated his brother were spread out in a fan around him but not-a-single-one of them was there to defend him. It was him (alone) with the indecisive remnants of his group of protestors sending him dirty looks of hateful spite since he’d gone off and broken Stephanie’s heart.

Kadar didn’t fucking _care_ because he was _exhausted_ , daydreaming about standing up and walking out just to keep from screaming until he didn’t _stop_. 

Mr. Theodoris excused himself after he passed out their worksheets and said he’d be-right-back and not to break into talking (because he had ears like a hawk). The door was open enough anyone in the hall could have heard them, heard the scrape of the chair across the floor and the shift of a dozen bodies all turning around to look at him. 

Kadar didn’t even flinch when the hand came from behind him to slap him in the arm. Clyde was hunched forward over his desk, licking his lips like they were confidential friends. He said, “hey, isn’t that rich guy dicking your brother from New York?” Like he was a real smart shit. Kadar didn’t say a word but Clyde didn’t need anyone to participate because he was saying, “and that’s funny because Scott—you remember Scott?—he said that lawyer that gave his parents the eviction letter was from New York? That’s a coincidence isn’t it?” Clyde slapped him again. “Isn’t it?” And he slapped him again. “That’s a real funny coincidence that your brother’s fucking some rich guy in New York all of a sudden—what’d you do, Kaddy-shack? Did you give his dick a little sucky-sucky?”

Kadar looked down at the worksheet he hadn’t even bothered to put his name on. He looked over toward the door, past all the tense faces and the worried-smiles that were watching him. Clyde reached forward and hit him again-- _harder_ \--right across the same spot as before. “Stop it,” Kadar said. He got out of his desk (far too small for his legs, far, far too small) and it jostled in place and knocked backward. Clyde was a snake, slipping to his feet, arms spread and face oh-so-innocent.

“What are you going to do, Kaddy-shack? Huh?” And Clyde stepped forward, shoved the desk with his thighs as he charged straight through it. He shoved his hands against Kadar’s chest and knocked him backward. The inertia threw him into a desk and he heard some girl object in a half-shout. “I heard you didn’t even fight back. I heard you just took it like _a bitch_. Man, at least if you had _tried_ to fight back I might respect you. Bending over for some—”

Kadar’s hand closed around a book at the edge of the desk he’d hit and he didn’t even think about what he was about to do before he gripped it in his hand as tight as he could and used it to slap across the broad side of Clyde’s stupid face. It shut him up—sort of, he squealed in shock—and it pushed him back far enough that he fell into someone. Kadar moved toward the front of the class. “Stop,” he said again, “I don’t want to do this.” He had his hands up but Clyde was rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Too bad,” he said all dark-and-serious. And then he charged forward, quick shoes on cold tile floor. His fists were blunt-hard-hammers when they landed against his face and Kadar felt across the tray on the chalkboard behind him until he found that ruler that Mr. Theodoris was so fond of slapping around. It wasn’t much of a weapon but it was enough to deter Clyde away from beating in his face. 

“Fuck you!” Kadar shouted at him. He threw the ruler behind him and grabbed Clyde by the collar because the only-thing-he-could-feel was _fury_ black-and-liquid. He didn’t feel his fist when it hit Clyde’s face, he didn’t feel his arm on the recoil, he didn’t feel the other bodies grabbing at him from the side and behind. He couldn’t hear their voices as distinct sounds but Clyde’s breath gasping out of his bloody mouth and the thump-thud-thump of his heart beating through his chest. Because Clyde was _afraid_ of him (all at once), because Kadar was as big as a fucking _bear_ in comparison. He wasn’t crushing his shoulders into his chest, ducking his head and bending his knees to compact his body into close spaces. He wasn’t whispering to keep himself from being seen. 

Clyde was a wild animal, slapping and kicking and beating against him to get his freedom—

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Where are you?
> 
> Principal’s office, waiting on the cops or the ambulance. They haven’t decided.

Malik did not make it to the school to save his brother (or even to hear the whole story) but jumped out of Altair’s car before it came to a full stop at the end of the front walk way. He ran up the lawn to the door and shoved it open, fell inside expecting to find almost anything but Kadar sitting in the living room with his arms crossed over his chest and his face a beaten-mask of _nothing_. He didn’t smile, he didn’t frown, he didn’t do anything but slide his eyes sideways to take note of Malik’s intrusion. For a minute, it seemed as if that was all he would do and then, in the next minute (just before Altair caught up to him), Kadar said, “I’m not okay.” And the corners of his mouth quirked up as his eyebrows pushed down and the parts of his face that weren’t already bruised-up dark turned rosy-pink. 

“Fuck,” Malik said. 

Mother was hovering in the doorway of the dining room, looking like she’d been crying in the kitchen. Her face was grim, spotted, damp. 

Malik ran his tongue across his lips and moved forward. He grabbed Kadar by the back of his shirt and pulled him upward, tucked him against his own body. And Kadar’s arms were around him the way they had been since they were children. His face was pressed against his shoulder, his body was shuddering (all at once) and his fingers were digging into the layers of Malik’s jacket. His breath was wet-and-hot, the catch and pull of his near sobs were saws digging into Malik’s _bones_. 

Kadar said, “I’m not okay, Malik. I’m not okay.” 

Malik kissed his hair and he nodded his head, he held onto him in the center of the living room, whispering, “its okay, Kadar. It’s alright. We’ll figure it out.” He tightened his arm around Kadar’s body and closed his eyes and he _convinced_ himself in the tight-hard spaces between his teeth and the damp-hurtful spaces between Kadar’s gasps of breath that it would be _true_.


	68. Chapter 68

> **Desmond**
> 
> Nobody liked Grandma
> 
> That’s unfair. I liked her.
> 
> People didn’t like her. Mama Maria, William, any of the cousins, any of the people that sucked up to her—they didn’t like her
> 
> They were afraid of her. They wanted her on their side
> 
> They wanted her absolute vengeance
> 
> They were willing to play along to get it
> 
> What happened?
> 
> I’m not going to be my Grandmother.

Altair had excused himself because a lifetime of family drama had instilled in his head that spectators were both unwanted and unhelpful. So he went for a drive, found somewhere that seemed reliably well cared for and bought a quick bite of food (since he was starving) and checked up with the people that had been hired to protect his reputation. (They were not pleased that he’d decided to tell everyone he was gay and they didn’t seem to care at all that he wasn’t gay but bisexual. The general consensus being that ‘bisexual’ was largely thought to be a made up thing.) 

Malik called him just before it got dark and Altair went back to the house. Kadar must have been whisked away to convalesce in his room because the downstairs was empty save for Malik who answered the door and led him through to the kitchen. Altair leaned against the counter, watched Malik make food for himself out of leftovers, and listened to the whole miserable story as relayed via big brother. 

“How the hell does that even happen? Who the fuck wasn’t doing their job that there was enough unsupervised time for this to happen?” Malik demanded. He gestured (a lot) when he was angry, an indecisive motion of his arm oscillating wildly between stirring the mess of food he’d dropped into the sauce pan for reheating and making his point with uncoordinated gestures. “ _Kadar_ got suspended!” There was a great deal of banging and slapping of pans and dishes. “Why the fuck did he get suspended?”

“Did he hit the other guy?” Altair asked.

Malik’s immediate scowl was enough to inform him that his response was inappropriate to the problem at hand. “That school has let people bully my brother for years. The one time he actually doesn’t just _let it happen_ , they suspend him. They suspended him for a week! They weren’t even going to do anything about the stupid kids that beat him up.”

“Well,” Altair said. He picked up a cracker because the package was sitting on the counter like an invitation. “Did you even give them a chance to do anything about it? I got the impression that you almost immediately called the lawyer which is probably the most expedient way to get things done but— What?” He had been about to stick the cracker in his mouth but the disbelieving stare he was receiving paused his hand in mid-motion. So he was holding a cracker out in front of his face. 

“You’re not angry,” Malik said. He picked up the pan he was reheating food in and moved it from the hot burner to the cool one behind it with a flat-loud-slap of noise. Then he motioned upward into the air. “Does it only make you angry when it’s your own family that gets harassed and hurt by ignorant people? This is my _brother_.”

Altair put the cracker down and straightened up so he wasn’t leaning against the counter. “That’s not fair.”

“Really?” Malik demanded, “because this is one time that your _temper_ would actually be beneficial to the situation and you’re just standing there like you don’t _care_.” Every word was a bitter cut of breath, like the sounds had been cut out of the inside of Malik’s throat. There was an echo of _fear_ in the sound that made the growing anger more painful to hear. “You can beat in the face of some guy who hasn’t actually done anything to you but you can’t even be bothered to spare an— _fuck_ for this?”

“This is not that,” Altair said with his tongue crossing over his lips. 

“Because that was bullshit and this _matters_!” Malik shouted at him. “This would be doing something _constructive_ something _useful_ that could change things for the better. This isn’t about something you _want_.”

“Bullshit,” Altair snapped back at him. “This isn’t about _Kadar_. Because if it was actually about _him_ , about what was _best_ for him, what would make a positive change for _him_ you wouldn’t be asking this. If I thought that it was the actual _school’s_ fault, I’d burn the fucking building down, _Malik_.”

“Then do it! They deserve it for what they let happen to my _brother_.” Malik shouted. 

No. Altair nodded his head with his teeth clenched and then let out a short breath. “Your brother has never wanted or _needed_ vengeance, Malik. Shut up and let me talk.” Those words were sharp as knives, cutting Malik off as soon as his lips parted and the effect of them was something akin to slapping him. Malik was _furious_ but silent. “Kadar isn’t you. I haven’t known him as long or as well as I’ve known you and I know that. Attacking the school, attacking the bully—attacking anyone for the blood you think is owed to you won’t help _him_. And even if I did what you’re asking, you’re not going to feel better. You’re still going to be angry and confused and _guilty_. He’s still going to be—depressed.”

Malik rolled his eyes. “You don’t know _my brother_. He’s not depressed.”

There was no point in arguing the point a moment further which must have been why Altair laughed in his face, why he spat the words, “ _neither was Desmond_.” (Which shifted around in his chest, nudged at an old ache that he’d never quite settled into place.) 

“Except that _my family_ actually loves one another!” Malik was coughing a laugh, “Kadar got _bullied_ by some dick kid after some _dick_ teacher left the room and let it _happen_.”

“And it’s your fault,” Altair said. There was a grim tightening in his chest; the tingling sensation of anger taking over his muscles. It felt like a living thing growing outward from the pit of his stomach. It ricocheted between his temples, knocking all around in a sudden thunderstorm of noise. “This wouldn’t have happened without that video, right? If this is about the school, about the bullies, then why stop at burning down the school? Why not seek vengeance where it’s due? You want me to make you pay for what you’ve done?”

Malik gestured to the side but there was a moment when he looked like he wanted to hit Altair. “This isn’t about me,” he said. 

“Well then act like it.”

“I’m not acting like this is about me. I’m acting like this is my brother and I get that you can’t understand that when you were raised by a psychopath and whatever-the-fuck Maria Auditore is, but in the real world where people have actual _attachment_ to their family, we generally get upset when unfair things happen. If you don’t want to get involved, _fine_ but the least you can do is be honest about it. This isn’t important to you so why fucking bother.”

Altair smiled (an old-old-reflex) and nodded his head. He took a breath (maybe two) to try to order the sudden cascade of furious things that were rushing through his skull. The entitled, infuriating, _smug_ look on Malik’s face was enough to lead him to believe that it was exactly the reaction he was trying to get. Never (not once ever) in his life had Altair ever forced himself to remain perfectly calm in retaliation but he did it now. “Fuck you, Malik.” Then he nodded and motioned toward the door. “I’m going to go.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> You think I’m depressed?
> 
> I think it’s a possibility.
> 
> Do you listen into all conversations?
> 
> The ones that happen in my house at loud volume, yes
> 
> You alright?
> 
> I will be.
> 
> Just, if you ever do need justice for something I would do whatever I could.
> 
> I know.
> 
> Same for you.

Malik was laying on his bed when Kadar knocked on the open door. Like every pouting toddler that ever lived, he was resolutely glaring at the ceiling with an ugly scowl creasing his entire face. The very air around him seemed to exude the entitled-tension of a whining baby. When he turned his head, the glare only lessened long enough for him to sigh. “You have to stop hiding on the stairs listening to arguments.”

“You need to stop having such loud arguments,” Kadar answered. His face hurt (that was what happened, he supposed, when you got hit a lot). He lingered in the doorway because he wasn’t positive he wanted to commit to entering Malik’s room. “You were wrong, you know.”

“The thought has occurred to me,” Malik said. He sat up and sighed. “How long?”

Kadar shrugged. He’d been convincing himself that he was fine-fine-fine, getting by on shiny-new-things for months now. It had been weeks (weeks-and-weeks) since he had woken up with any real energy. It might have been longer than that even, but he had been dragging himself through life for a few months. “What are you going to do about Altair?”

Malik just hiccupped a laugh, motioned helplessly toward him. “Can’t you think about yourself?”

“Myself doesn’t like a bully, Malik. And I already beat up one of them today, if you want to see if I can take you down, I’m game.” He leaned his side against the door jamb and waited for Malik to work around to the obvious conclusion. 

“I’ll call him in the morning,” Malik said.

“Call him now,” Kadar corrected. “You were wrong. Call him and tell him that you were wrong.” There was a shuffle of noise behind him and he turned his head to the side to look toward Mother’s room. Her door remained resolutely closed so he looked back at Malik. “Do you think Mom would let me go to New York for a few days if I looked especially depressed in her direction?”

Of course Malik (who starved himself, and isolated himself and still acted like it was no big deal at all) looked at him with disapproval at the very suggestion. “I think if you want to go to New York for a few days you should tell start by asking the man I assume you’re hoping to stay with and then ask Mother if you can.”

Kadar sighed. “I just don’t want to be _here_ ,” he said softly. “I just want to be somewhere that none of this has ever happened. I don’t want to hurt Mom’s feelings. I don’t want her to— I don’t know. Do you think she’d be upset?”

Yes. The answer was apparent on Malik’s face almost as soon as Kadar finished asking the question. “I don’t know,” was what he said, “but I think you should talk to her about it if you think it would help you feel better. _Honestly_ , not in a way that is manipulative.” 

“Yeah, fine. Whatever.” Then Kadar motioned back toward his room (and his bed) and pushed away from the doorframe. “Call your boyfriend.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Are you ignoring my calls?
> 
> Yes
> 
> I did not expect you to answer.
> 
> I’m angry and I don’t want to talk to you
> 
> I’m sorry. I was upset about my brother but I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.
> 
> You were right. I do want to hurt someone because I’m angry that my brother is in pain. It is selfish.
> 
> Okay.
> 
> I don’t want to pressure you to talk before you’re ready but I do want to know what you’re thinking.
> 
> Okay. When I’m less angry.
> 
> Ok. See you in the morning?
> 
> Yes

Altair called Lucy because Desmond was the sort of guy that didn’t know how to have a fight. He called her because he was laying on a hotel bed feeling lonely and bitter, trying to reason out how he felt.

“Wait, someone beat up the brother again?” Lucy (was eating on the other end of the line) got stuck on the details the way Malik got stuck on details. “Who the fuck would beat up that kid? I’ve met him twice and he’s an angel so I just need you to go find the douche that did it and—no wait, maybe I need Federico for this. Do you know how to hit someone and make them piss blood?” There was a half-smile caught in the tone of Lucy’s words, the sort of violent retribution that she would talk about (and had most likely exacted at some point) before she boiled down to something reasonable. 

“Leonardo does,” Altair said. He was lying on his back with his feet against the wall and one of his arms behind his head. “But Lucy—”

“Like, who the fuck even does that? I cannot imagine this kid earning that kind of—” There was a noise to the side, a disruptive tone of someone speaking over her and Lucy went quiet a minute (presumably to gesture an answer) before she turned her attention back to the phone. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m angry that Kadar got hurt by bullies because I think he’s a great kid and he deserves to be treated better than that. You’re not wrong. If the kid is against revenge then bulldozing the school to the foundation won’t help him.”

Altair snorted. “If you needed revenge on someone would you come to me?”

There was a hum of noise on the other end. A little lull of voice that grew slowly back into recognizable sound. “Yes,” Lucy said after the pause. “But not because you’re rich and have the ability to hurt people without remorse. I would come to you because you’re my family. I’m not saying that’s why Malik was trying to use you for it. I’m saying that, we’re family and my problem is yours and your problems are mine. I’d fight someone in a second for you, Altair. I’d fight Malik if I thought it would help.”

Altair smiled but it was brief and fleeting. “I’m angry. But I’m not.”

Lucy sighed in the exact what she did when she flinched at him for misunderstanding something (basic and small). “It doesn’t sound like you’re angry. It sounds like you’re hurt. I don’t know the whole complicated history about your Grandmother, Altair. I know only enough to know that she doesn’t seem like the sort of person a lot people would be friends with on a sincere level. If Malik made you feel like he was going to use you, then you need to tell him. It needs to be said now while you’re starting out so he understands that you’re not his weapon.” Then a slight pause before, “ _but_ , I don’t think that he meant it to seem that way. I think he wanted you to agree with him, he wanted you to be more emotional with him because he was upset his brother was hurt.”

“But I am mad. He’s the one that told me I couldn’t use violence all the time. He’s the one that keeps telling me that I can’t solve everything with money and—he says all this bullshit until it’s convenient for him that I’m rich and violent and then all of a sudden he’s shouting at me in the kitchen, using the things I’ve told him against me. You didn’t see his _face_ ,” Altair said. That was the anger that had been slow-simmering in the back of his head but even with it, he was lethargic with emotion. “That bastard knew what he was doing.”

“You should talk to him.”

“Fuck him,” Altair snapped.

“You can do that too, but preferably after you tell him how you feel. I recommend fucking, actually. It’s like a punctuation to an end of an argument. But I’m serious,” Lucy said. “What you’re feeling is hurt. So tell him that, tell him what he did that hurt you. It’s important that you’re able to communicate it to him. Talk to him about how to prevent it from happening again.”

“Fine,” Altair said.

“Then go find that asshole that hit Kadar and scare the fuck out of him,” Lucy said. “You don’t look nearly as scary in pictures as you do in person.”

“That won’t actually hel—”

“I don’t want you to do it for Kadar. I want you to do it because the story you told me was that the asshole went after Kadar because he thinks Kadar is using you for revenge against the other assholes. I want you to walk up to the little cocksucker and make sure he understands that there is a universe much larger than his tiny fucking brain can comprehend and if he ever tries to fuck with any of our family again, the full wrath of hell will descend upon him and we won’t take his fucking house, we’ll break his ribs one by one, pull them out of his chest and fuck him with them. Then he can relay the message to everyone _else_ that they should just stay the fuck away. This isn’t revenge, Altair. This is Federico picking you up from high school.”

Altair was grinning at the ceiling. “What the hell did you do in the Air Force, Lucy?” There was a laugh caught in all the words. “Fine. I will go intimidate the bully unless Kadar asks me not to.”

“Good. Remember to tell Malik not to be an insensitive dick too.” Then she was moving on the opposite end. “Desmond has given up his video games for the night. I’m going to go get laid. Good luck.”

“Yeah, thanks.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> If you ever wake up I’m sitting on your porch.
> 
> Why?

Malik got dressed only as much as was necessary to open the front door (he put on socks, primarily) and padded downstairs to pull open the door to find Altair sitting there with his hands tucked up under his arm pits and his shoulders hunched forward. It was early enough in the morning that the puddles of light were outweighed by the stretch of shade. “Why are you just sitting out there?” Malik asked. He might have pointed out that Mother was awake (always was) but insinuating that Altair should have tried to interact with her wouldn’t have helped the situation. Instead he just sighed and stepped out on to the porch (very cold under his feet) and sat next to Altair. “How long have you been here?”

“About an hour,” Altair said. He was squinting at Malik(‘s pajamas, what with the collar on the top and all the buttons and the vertical stripes) with a clear look of someone that was trying not to laugh. Then he cleared his throat and said, “you made me angry because I felt like you were trying to use me to get revenge.” 

Yeah, well, “In the real world. When people say they are going to do something violent and illegal they usually aren’t sincere,” Malik said. He didn’t lean into Altair’s body but the thought was there, to just push at him with his left arm, to nudge at him in a way that conveyed the joke. But there was tight-hurt-pinch caught in Altair’s face. (And out of all the differences they had between them, Malik hadn’t imagined _this_ would be one that they’d get stuck on.) “I wasn’t _asking_ you to hurt anyone. I wanted you to be upset with me.”

“Why?” Altair asked.

“Because my brother got hurt!” Malik didn’t shout but his voice was loud enough in the early-early morning that he looked over his shoulder in case a neighbor came to the window to shout at him about the noise. “He _is_ hurt, _hurting_ , I guess. I don’t know what to do. I just—wanted to know it mattered and you just stood there like I was _unreasonable_ , like everything I was saying was _unreasonable_.” More annoying than the fact that he had to _explain_ why he was angry about having his feelings undermined (something that anyone with a reasonable grasp of emotion should have been able to figure out independently) was the fact that Altair was just _staring_ at him like he didn’t even understand what was being said to him. 

“I don’t know how,” Altair said. (And he looked embarrassed to admit it.) “I grew up under a scale of justice. If you hurt someone, they hurt you. Ezio ruined Federico’s clothes when I was fourteen—they were arguing about something, Ezio went over to his place and ruined his clothes with spray paint or something. Federico broke two of his ribs.” Altair made a motion with his hand, “you can’t hit Ezio’s face. I doubt you’ll fight him, but you don’t touch his face. Vieri tried it once and nobody can prove it exactly but they are pretty sure Federico went after him with a hammer. We just know Vieri had to have his wrist reconstructed and he hasn’t bothered Ezio since.”

That was— “Horrifying,” Malik said. “That’s not what happens here. He broke Ezio’s ribs?”

“That’s nothing. Federico has broken almost all of his fingers, one of his arms, his face, had to have his teeth put back in, once had his eye popped out—if you believe the stories—had his nose broke by _Edward_ when he was ten or something. That’s how they work. That’s why Ezio invited me to Italy. In his head, it was fair. Leonardo owed me for his taunts and jabs.” Altair sighed and there was a half-laugh in his voice that sounded raw all around the edges. “My Grandmother broke people. She could ruin them. And she never cared. Not about anything. I _can’t_ become that. Because sometimes I think I am.”

Malik did moved closer to Altair then, leaned his body in against Altair’s so he could tip his head close enough to lay his chin against his shoulder. It wasn’t a hug (not with Altair sitting to his left) but it was as close as he could manage. “I didn’t want you to hurt anyone. I wanted you to be angry with me.”

Altair put his arm around Malik and nodded. “I am,” Altair said. “That little fucker hut Kadar because of us.” There was a darkness in his voice that was like a blanket, laid all warm-and-thick across Malik’s worried-thin-nerves. Altair tipped his head so he was looking at him. “Your brother is important to me.” Altair kissed him, a press of lips against his forehead, “Kadar wanted to go to New York. I told him if he could convince your Mother, I would provide room and board. If we’re going to make it back for our Friday thing we have to leave by nine. Can you be ready by then? I’ll come pick you up?” Then he was extracting himself and getting back to his feet. 

Malik didn’t get up but look up at him. “Where are you going?”

Altair had both his fists shoved into his coat pockets, shrugging his shoulders like holding the question off. “You know where I’m going.” Then he took a step away. “I’ll be back soon.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> His name was Clyde, correct?
> 
> Yes.

“Hey,” Altair shouted across the parking lot. The kid with the smart ass grin (and the bruised jaw) was laughing at some too-tall type with a too-wide mouth and the sort of sandy-blonde hair that seemed plastered to his head. “Clyde!”

The little one (a matter of perspective) turned to look at him. His eyes were narrow-and-suspicious, the laugh he’d been sharing came to a slow stand still as his expression morphed into something like dismissal as he watched Altair walk up to him. “Who the hell are you?”

Altair finished crossing the parking lot, looked down at Clyde (that sort of kid that wore his bravado like a coat, the one that puffed himself up and talked-too-loud to cover the fact that he was a piece of shit. The exact sort of boy portrayed in movies, nagging the heroine for sex and assaulting her behind the bleachers when he didn’t get his way). Altair kept his hands in his pocket, invaded the space around Clyde until it unnerved him, until he was looking over at the Ken doll at the side. “Don’t you recognize me? I heard you were an authority.”

“Look man,” Clyde said, hands up and voice loud, “I don’t know what you heard but—”

It was the Ken-doll type that shoved him from the side, “back off, asshole. We don’t know who you are but you really shouldn’—”

“Who are you?” Altair interrupted. He had learned to leech the emotion out of his voice when he was still a child. He’d sat at Grandma’s side, memorizing the pattern of her words, the way her eyes went empty and her body got all loose and careless. He had mastered the stare of a monster before he’d mastered cursive. 

“My name’s Scott,” the asshole snapped at him, chest out and body crowding in close against him. “And you need to step away from my friend.”

Altair smiled. Oh he _smiled_ like warm-summer’s days, like Malik’s warm skin sneaking up against his in the early morning, like his favorite-fucking-breakfast steaming-and-hot (just waiting for him). Oh, he smiled because he pointed a finger at Scott (Ken Doll)’s puffed out chest and said, “Simmons?”

Clyde was smarter-by-far because he was quick stepping backward, trying to back pedal his way out of the sudden confrontation with a fumble of words saying, “oh fuck, I think he—” because his brain caught up with his mouth. Altair grabbed him by the front of the shirt and held him there. 

“How’s the gutter?” Altair asked.

“What?” Scott demanded.

“It’s the New York guy,” Clyde said in a desperate rush of noise. He was jerking around, two hands peeling at Altair’s clenched-tight fingers. “Do something.” Scott was burning up red-and-furious. His voice was churning up in his chest and Altair was smirking at him for five-six-seven seconds before the All-American asshole hit him (as hard as he could) across the jaw.

Scott’s voice was a hollow howl of noise saying something like, “you asshole! You took _everything_ from me! I was going to college! I had a full ride!” And he grabbed at Altair’s coat like he was going to hit him again. 

For a moment, Altair felt absolutely nothing. It was a perfectly clear moment, just long enough to consider how he wanted to proceed. Enough to see the fear on Clyde’s face that hadn’t managed to mutate itself into confidence, enough to see the hurt-and-rage making Scott a filthy, disgusting mongrel caught between animal wrath and human hurt. He weighed his options like putting them on a scale: the lawyer’s fees, the possibility of surveillance the likelihood of lawsuits and finally the vicious, pure satisfaction of exacting the revenge that was so-long-overdue.

Scott hit him again. 

Altair allowed it.

“Scott,” he said. There was nothing in his voice but the blood in his mouth, washing around his teeth. “Let me explain to you what is about to happen.” When the bastard tried to hit him again, Altair put an arm up to block the blow. “You need to listen to me, Scott. If you hit me again; I will hit you back. Look at my face, Scott. I will _kill_ you. It won’t be fast and you won’t go easy. Do you know how long it takes to beat a man to death with your hands, Scott?” He tightened his fingers around Scott’s wrist. “Look at my _face_ , do you think I know how long it takes?” 

“You ruined my life!” Scott shouted at him. But his hands hesitated between his body and Altair’s. Evolution had instilled just enough primal intelligence in his head to save his life in situations like this. 

“Scott,” Altair said again. He tipped his head and drew in a breath. “We both know that’s not true. _You_ ruined it. The first minute you got it into your head to lay a hand on _my family_. This was all inevitable.” Altair wasn’t going to hit him (oh he _wasn’t_ ) but the need was a vibrating sensation racing through every part of his body. Scott was _just_ close enough, turned just exactly right that Altair could punch him in the side, just under the ribs, right where the pain would drop him. It was beautiful to watch: that first moment of panic, the spasm of his muscles seizing up as he went _down_. Altair crouched down in front of him, ducked his head so Scott could look up at him with his watery-eyes and smiled at him again. “You make sure you tell _all_ of your dick friends that you got what you deserved. I’ve seen your face. I never forget a face.” He stood up, a slow motion of his body and turned his head without moving his body, “now where is Clyde?”

Clyde was just staring at him. Wide-eyed-and-blank, breathing like he’d run for miles, caught between horror and _fear_ so awful it had shut down his better instincts. Altair walked over to him with his hand sliding back into his pockets, worked right up into his personal space to whisper, “you’re a smart guy, aren’t you?”

Clyde was nodding his head.

“Stay away from Kadar,” he said. Clyde was nodding frantically. “Nobody touches him. If _anyone_ does, if _anyone_ says anything to him that I don’t like—I’m coming back for you. Yeah?”

Clyde nodded. And Altair nodded with him. Then he slapped him on the side of his face before he walked away. Every step was a measured stride, perfectly constructed to punctuate how little he cared about them. (But in his chest, between his gut and his heart, he was _on fire_ with a need for blood that was _ravenous_.) There was minimal satisfaction in glancing over at them from his car, seeing Clyde heaving for breath and Scott was still on the ground. 

\--

sass-badger: Fun Fact Friday may be delayed just slightly due to a disruption in our travel plans. (10m ago)

Kadar found Mother dusting in the dining room (when he finally dragged himself out of bed, through a shower and down the stairs). She was displacing things and disturbing piles of dust that rose like clouds toward the ceiling before dissipating. “Hey Mom,” he said. Last night, she had been protective of him, lingering on the damage that was done to him and sparing his feelings while he was upset. There was no guarantee that she would greet the new day with that same confusion of emotion. “I wanted to talk to you.”

Mother did not immediately put away the duster but finish what she was working on before she set the thing on the shelf and turned to face him. There was a table between them, and an unreadable expression on her face. “Yes?” she asked.

“Are you alright?” Kadar asked.

“I am disappointed that I have failed to see my sons were hurt and in need of something. I’m hurt that I was not available to you when you needed me.” Then Mother sighed. “What did you need, Kadar?”

“I don’t think I knew that I needed you,” Kadar said. He meant it. The table between them seemed like a boundary he couldn’t cross so he toyed with the folded over edge of yesterday’s mail that did not get put where it belonged. “I mean, you are here. I do come to you. But—I didn’t know about _this_.” Whatever the feeling was, that one where he was being pushed under water, the one where everything was heavy and gray. “I was building a bubble. I thought, if I can just get Malik what he wants—and then we _did_. I thought, if I can just love this beautiful girl and I thought I _did_ but Malik just _left_ again and Stephanie just—she was going so far away and I kept trying to support her and be happy for her but I was _angry_ and when I wasn’t, I thought, I don’t even _love_ her. I can’t remember when I started feeling like this; it’s like the flu. It’s the only thing I can feel; and it’s just an ache. I thought I could just keep going and I’d be fine. I thought I was.”

Mother had tears in her eyes when she nodded. She moved, he didn’t. Her hands were small on his face, she pulled him down until she could kiss his forehead.

“Please don’t cry,” Kadar said. 

Mother smiled at him but it did not make it to her eyes. “What would you like to talk about, Kadar?”

It seemed very much like stabbing his Mother in the chest (in that moment) but he cleared his throat, “can I go to New York for a few days?”

There was no name for the expression on his Mother’s face. The odd flinch of a smile that looked all at once like a great deal of pain, failure, anger and finally an utter lack of surprise. He thought her words would spread like venom but she only smoothed out her expression into something neutral. “Where would you stay and what would you plan to do while you are there?”

“I’d stay with Altair and Malik,” Kadar said. “I don’t know what we’d do.”

“This is not a cure,” Mother said. 

“I know,” Kadar said. “It’s just—leaving. I don’t even know that I’ll feel differently anywhere else.”

Then Mother was just very quiet. “And Altair and your brother have agreed to this?” Kadar nodded and Mother just sighed. She looked at his face with the same twist of hurt on her own. “You can go until Monday,” she said. “You will have school work to do even if you cannot attend school.” 

“Thank you, Mom,” Kadar said. He hugged her and she hugged him back, both of her slim arms tight around his body. “Thank you,” he said again.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Were you ready?
> 
> Is Kadar coming?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Yes he is
> 
> But I’ve been informed he must be returned on Monday
> 
> Ok. I’m outside your house.

Malik hugged his Mother good-bye and she held him still even after Kadar had already gone out of the door carrying his bag over one shoulder, head ducked and feet shuffling toward the car. Mother had her hand on Malik’s face when she said, “take care of your brother.”

“I will,” he said. “Take care of yourself,” he said. “Maybe call Mr. Jacobs and just go out for a while.”

Mother raised her eyebrow at that idea but then nodded her head. “Perhaps,” she said. “Be good.” Then she kissed his forehead and let him go. Malik carried the weight of his Mother’s unspoken sigh all the way to the car. Kadar was in the backseat, stretched out as well as he could manage in the limited space, trying to look optimistic as he slid his eyes from where Malik was standing with his hand on the door handle to where Altair was sitting with one hand on the wheel and the other first pressed against his mouth. 

Even before he opened the door, the oppressive silence of the interior of the car was suffocating. Malik got into the seat and glanced at Altair while he buckled himself in. “Are you alright?”

Altair looked at him with his eyebrows high and his expression a dead mask. “Yes,” he (lied). “Are you ready?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. He waited until they were at the end of the street before he motioned at the radio, “can we listen to something?” He was watching Altair’s face (and the utter lack of expression on it) waiting to see some indication of what he feeling. His question got a nod as an answer but no verbal response. “Did you have a preference?”

“Whatever you or Kadar wants,” Altair said. Then he just sighed. “I am fine,” he said. That was a crack in the dead expression (at least). “I just can’t talk about it yet.” He motioned at the radio with one hand. “Listen to whatever you want.”

\--

horse: is it too late to submit questions, @sass-badger? (9m ago)

Sass-badger: for you, @horse? Yes. (7m ago)

Kadar wasn’t entirely sure how these sorts of things went in person (as he’d never participated in the filmed-live portion of the event, but he was fairly certain that even if he’d thought about it he wouldn’t have imagined it as such a sorry affair. Lucy and Desmond invited themselves up to Altair’s living room to do the filming. Desmond had walked in smiling but the expression dissolved right off his face as soon as he saw Altair (hours later and _still_ monosyllabic in speech). Lucy hadn’t walked in precisely but all but kicked open the door and charged in. While Desmond frowned after Altair (setting up the recording), Lucy came over to look at Kadar.

“Fuck,” she said when she saw his face. “Nothing’s broken?”

“No,” Kadar said. His face was bruised but it wasn’t nearly as bad as it had been the day before when it was swollen too. Lucy’s face got all pink with angry blush as she looked at him and her hands coiled up into white-white fists as she shook her head. “I think someone already did something about it,” he whispered.

Lucy did look at Altair then, over her shoulder to where Desmond was hovering just-beyond-grabbing distance. Her whole body softened like letting out a sigh of defeat. “Maybe you should stay with us tonight,” Lucy said. She sighed again when she looked at Malik sitting at the edge of the couch watching Altair’s every motion with that hawk-like intensity that meant he was unravelling a problem. “I heard you have an eye for wedding dresses? Claudia is coming over to nag me about them again, you can keep her busy for me.” Then Lucy clapped her hand on his shoulder in an affectionate way. 

“Sure,” Kadar said. He hid behind the camera while the others arranged themselves in couple-sets. Desmond and Altair were on the outside edges, Malik and Lucy were closer. 

“So most of these questions were about your sex life,” Lucy said. She had a stack of cards with neat-little-print on them. “I tried to weed out the ones that you obviously wouldn’t answer. But there are a few that I left in. Nothing too incendiary, I hope.” Then she smiled. “Ready?”

“Yup,” Altair said. He dipped forward to hit the button that started the livestream. There were countless critics on the internet that accused Altair of being incapable of acting and while they weren’t wrong (exactly) they clearly had never seen the man transform himself from a wooden marionette marinating in fury to a smiling beam of light in half a second as soon as a camera was pointed at him. He said, “hello and welcome to our first _joint_ Fun Fact Friday. I’m Altair and this is Malik,” he motioned at Malik (who was just staring at Altair like he didn’t understand what he was seeing, he only barely looked at the camera and smiled), “and Lucy and Desmond,” who both waved hello. “We asked you to send in questions for us, I’m sure we got a lot. Lucy and Desmond picked out the ones that didn’t break our rules and will ask us as many as they can in the next hour.”

\--

> Lucy: I like this question: ‘I couldn’t imagine falling in love with someone I couldn’t see. This question is for Altair, was it difficult for you to accept what Sass really looks like? After all this time you must have had a very different mental image?’
> 
> Altair: …uh, well I thought Sass was a woman for most of that time so the whole—uh, _everything_ was different than I was expecting. I didn’t have an actual idea of what Sass looked like but, just from my sexual history I had a notion? I was expecting: dark hair, brown eyes, probably not a very white complexion. As for falling in love with someone that you cannot see, I think that the reasons I fell in love with Sass, _Malik_ are more significant than looks.
> 
> Malik: It might have been different if you weren’t bisexual.
> 
> Altair: [Smiles at Malik.] That would have been a problem. I think the fact that I had sex with you before all this relieved me of the fear that I wouldn’t be sexually attracted to you. What is the worst case scenario here? That I didn’t want to have sex with you? I would have loved you anyway. 
> 
> Desmond: Lucy gave me this question to ask you: did you have sex the first time you saw one another after all this time?
> 
> Malik: No.
> 
> Altair: Not exactly.
> 
> Malik: Not exactly? The answer is no. 

“Just,” Desmond said before Lucy came to drag him out of the apartment by the shirt. Every line on his body was radiating concern on a level that was _beyond_ aggravating. “I need to know you’re okay,” like what he meant to say was _I need to know that you’re_ safe. “What would help? Talking? Fighting? I think Ezio’s somewhere nearby.”

“I’m fine,” Altair said. He didn’t bother to put a smile on his face because Desmond could have seen through it. “I don’t need Ezio. I’m not going to hurt anyone.” Then Lucy was there with her slim arm around Desmond’s chest and her smile peeking over his shoulder.

Lucy said, “we’re borrowing Kadar for the night. We’ll make sure he brushes his teeth and goes to bed at a good time.” She didn’t ask him if he was alright but emptied out the apartment of everyone with ears or concerned expressions and left him utterly alone with Malik. 

Malik hadn’t moved from the place he’d moved to sit after the close of Fun Fact Fridays. He was sitting in the corner of the couch, wedged at an angle with his right arm over the arm rest and his legs crossed in front of his body. When Altair came over toward him, he looked up at him. His expression was a terrible mess of things: fear, concern, anger, _hurt_ like he couldn’t reason out what thing he wanted to concentrate on. “Tell me what you did,” Malik said with more civility than his expression seemed to indicate was possible. 

Altair sat on the coffee table with his elbows on his thighs. “I went to find the kid that hurt Kadar yesterday. I found him.” Not alone, of course. Altair ran his tongue across his lips. “The other one was there. The first one, Scott.” Malik hissed air across his lips and his fist tightened up where it was resting against his thigh. “I didn’t hurt him much. I let him know that I could. It wasn’t a lie. Malik—I don’t know if you understand what I am capable of. I wouldn’t have stopped hitting Leonardo. I need you to know that. I wouldn’t have stopped. If I started hitting this _stupid_ man, I wouldn’t have stopped.” He could feel his face wrinkling up with that edge of emotion that felt like it would swallow him. A great tide of failure that boiled and rolled just under the calm. “I just—I’m not even a person when it happens. I don’t feel _anything_ , I don’t even feel pain.” There was a dampness around his eyes but he flattened out his face again. He swallowed down the swollen sensation in his throat. “I wanted to hurt him.”

“I wanted you to,” Malik said like he couldn’t keep it in a minute longer. “Fuck,” he said. “I _want_ to. I want to find that miserable fuck and I want to hit him until he stops moving. I want him _broken_ in a way that can’t ever be fixed.” Malik wasn’t _sad_ at the words or _horrified_. The ugliness of them was so absolute that the softness of his tone seemed out of place. When he moved, it was a sudden motion of his whole body, lurching forward to sit at the edge of the couch. His hand was pulling at Altair’s arm. 

“I can’t,” Altair whispered.

When Altair didn’t move, Malik used the sturdiness of his body to pull himself up into Altair’s lap. It was an awkward fit with Malik’s knees banging against the top of the coffee table. It wobbled under their weight. Malik’s breath was hot against his mouth, his body was too close to see properly. But his voice was a clear sound, “I know. I know that. I’m glad you didn’t. I’m glad you didn’t.” But he was kissing Altair in a confusion of things. His hand was pulling at him with a desperate scratch of fingernails and blunt finger tips, urging and urging to get what he wanted.

Altair cupped his face, held it in place and kissed him back. He was miserable with half-realized fury, stuck in a repeating loop of what _might have been_ and there was a primal, animal comfort in the tight grip of Malik’s thighs around him. “I’m going to fuck you,” he said against Malik’s mouth and the answer was a nod. Malik’s greedy hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling on it. When Altair shoved him back against the couch, Malik’s only objection was the push of breath knocked out of his chest and the hand between them that was working his belt loose. They stripped in pieces, Malik’s pants, Altair’s shirt. In and out of the same violent kiss, biting and clawing at something that felt too like it would crush them if allowed to grow.

They fucked like that, Malik’s digging nails into his back, Altair beating his confusion into Malik’s (all-too-willing) body.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Did you work it out?

The sweat was still damp-and-sticky on their skin. Altair was still laying up against his body, a pressing weight between his legs. Every part of Malik’s body was still caught up in the heated-after-glow of a good fuck and that might have been why he was pushing the wet hair off Altair’s forehead. He felt magnanimous; he felt _merciful_. He said, “if someone had asked me what I wanted when I woke up in the hospital, I would have asked for that man’s head. I lost my arm and my spleen because that man didn’t want his friends to make fun of him for being late. Every time I think about my brother’s mercy, I feel a great black rage. Its poison inside of me. I don’t even know if I would have felt this way before the accident. I do know that if I had been where you were, if I had the ability, the knowledge and the opportunity—Scott Simmons would be in _pieces_.” 

Altair smiled (but only briefly). “I wanted him dead too,” Altair said. “Kadar saved that bastard’s life. But, you saved Scott. You said you couldn’t be with me as long as I was capable of that violence. I am, I always will be. I have to _choose_ not to, but I will _always_ be able to.”

Malik nodded. He rubbed his finger across the stray hairs that had gotten caught in the sweat around Altair’s ear. “I love you.” He tugged Altair back down to kiss him again. It was a softer-sweeter thing than it had been the last time. “Can you fuck me again?”

“Yeah,” Altair mumbled into his mouth. “In a minute.” In the meantime he kissed Malik back, like, “I love you,” in every touch of his mouth and hand. Altair stripped his shirt off, ran his hands up over his chest, and lingered with his fingertips across every imperfect scar as he kissed him like he could silence the unspoken objections. 

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Are you on the East Coast?
> 
> No.
> 
> Should I be?
> 
> I don’t know. Maybe.
> 
> Remember how you used to start fights with Federico?
> 
> It is not as past tense as you would believe it to be.
> 
> I cannot imagine you need a fight.
> 
> Altair
> 
> If it is necessary, I will send Federico. I am very good.
> 
> But I would not provoke a fight with the baby.
> 
> But you’d send your brother to do it?
> 
> Federico is already ugly and he does not mind pain.

Desmond snorted at the phone. He was indecisive about sending a message to Altair. It hadn’t been very long (an hour or two, at most). However long it took to make dinner, eat dinner, answer the door and find Claudia there looking remarkably thrilled to meet whoever she could get her hands on. 

Kadar wasn’t his brother (not even a little) but Claudia didn’t seem to care that she wasn’t in the presence of the man that had charmed Altair right out of his heterosexuality. Rather, she was sitting on the couch with her spread of bridal magazines, holding the TV remote hostage. “What are you even talking about?” Claudia demanded from him. The fact that half of Kadar’s face was discolored by bruises hadn’t even given her a moment of pause. Rather than be taken aback by the sight, Claudia had just hugged Kadar and launched into how she’d heard that he was a fan of wedding dresses. “Lucy—why would you even, no.”

“She has great arms and shoulders,” Kadar countered to the argument that had started over twenty-five minutes ago about the sort of neckline would be best. Claudia (quite shockingly) had voted for something traditional, something that didn’t show off too much skin. Kadar had rolled his eyes almost as soon as she voted for modesty. “Her breasts aren’t too big so don’t even say that,” he pointed a finger at Claudia with one hand holding the magazine against his lap. 

Lucy, who had been leafing through the magazine she was given, looked over at the back of Kadar’s head with an amused expression. Then she looked at Desmond. “Do you have a thought? How much skin is too much skin?”

“Well, I’d rather you didn’t show up naked,” Desmond said. “You do have really great arms and shoulders.” 

Kadar shouted, “ha!” at Claudia Auditore (heedless of the price of pissing off such a person) and she rolled up the magazine in her hand and hit him on the thigh with it. He looked offended for a second before he laughed at her. “Sore loser,” he said.

“I did not _lose_. You are wrong. In the end, I will be proven right.”

“No, you won’t.” Kadar was so absolute about it that there was almost no way to keep it from devolving into a contest. “Put the dress show on. I bet you that I get every one of them right.”

Claudia didn’t even stop to point out that Kadar could already have seen a good majority of the episodes but muttered something filthy in Italian before she turned the channel on the TV. “You will not win,” she promised him. “But I will enjoy crushing you.” She laughed when Kadar laughed again. The two of them perfectly happy to be idiots.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Are you alright?
> 
> Yes. I told you I was.
> 
> No, I didn’t hurt anyone.
> 
> Full disclosure, he has some bruises. Sex related. Fell off the couch.
> 
> Well that is more information than I needed
> 
> Breakfast? You can say you’re fine but I’d like to see the proof. And I need to take London back.
> 
> Sure. Supposed to take Kadar out to see New York anyway.
> 
> You could have brought London back already 
> 
> She doesn't need to be a witness to your sex life
> 
> Might have to keep her forever then

Either by design or accident, Desmond found himself alone with Kadar. It seemed like the sort of thing that someone (or many people really) might have engineered if they had half-a-brain to devote to something besides their own emotions. Lucy had relayed to him the whole ugly affair from the bullying to Kadar’s spectacular breakdown. Altair’s offer that he might be _depressed_ was more shocking as a show of maturity and possible understanding than it was necessarily as a possible diagnosis. Kadar was eighteen; just off a year full of emotional and physical upheaval. There was nothing remotely surprising about how he felt.

The (very tall, rather large in general) kid was sitting on his couch, looking conspicuous about whatever it was he wasn’t saying. Desmond tried to wager a guess as to how they were going to open the conversation and when he failed to come up with something and when Kadar failed to ask anything, Desmond said, “I heard you had a rough day yesterday.”

“Yeah,” Kadar said with a shrug that pushed it all away. “Is my brother still alive? I was going to send him a message but I thought I probably got removed from the apartment because they were going to fuck out their differences or whatever it is you do in a situation like this.” 

That was not at all what he expected to hear. Desmond nodded. “Yeah, he’s alive.”

“Well, that’s encouraging.” Kadar relaxed back into the couch and picked at the arm of it. “Do you think Malik can handle him? I mean—I know you don’t know my brother very well. Just, can Altair be handled? I haven’t ever seen anyone just shut down like he did.”

“That’s a hard question to answer,” Desmond said. “Altair doesn’t—trust? He doesn’t let people understand what he’s feeling. Your brother has probably seen more of him than any of us. I’m not saying it’ll be easy to figure it out, but I think, Altair loves Malik and he _wants_ Malik. If you brother feels the same in even half as much intensity as Altair feels they will be fine together.” 

“Malik loves him. Malik is _stupid_ about him. He has been since the beginning. Even when he hated him, he was stupid.” Kadar laughed. He shook his head. He smiled like thinking over a fond memory. “Did Altair hurt someone today?”

Yes. Desmond shrugged. “I don’t know. His demeanor implies that he did but his knuckles say that he didn’t. Did you want him to? Or did you want him not to?”

Kadar’s expression went all blank, emptied out of any focus. He shrugged again. “I can’t decide. I don’t believe in revenge. I can’t imagine anything that your cousin would do could be considered justice but—some part of me. The parts of me that don’t want to be scared or—beat up, anymore. Those parts want to know that he took care of it. Like, he’s magic?” Kadar did focus on Desmond then. “If he tells them to leave me alone, they will because he’s scarier than I am weak.” Kadar shrugged and his lips went sideways at an angle. 

Yes, well that was the core of it. Desmond sat forward on his chair, turned so he was looking at Kadar. “You know about me.” Kadar nodded. “When I was young, I believed everything my Father told me. I believed I was ungrateful, that I was weak, that I was worthless, that I used him and that I couldn’t ever repay him for what he’d given up for me. I thought I owed him. I thought I was greedy. I wasn’t. Nothing that he ever said to me was _true_. None of it was _me_. When I got older, I went to my Grandmother because I wanted her to _hurt him_. I left because I finally understood that he would never change and I wasn’t what he said I was. But I went to her because I wanted her to burn my Father alive. That didn’t happen for me.” Desmond thought a moment about how to phrase the next thing. “I wanted someone to hurt him. For a long time, I wanted someone to hurt my Father for me. I wanted to do it. I thought—if he’s gone, if he’s _dead_ , I won’t have to carry him around in my head anymore.” Desmond swallowed back that notion. “But when Altair found out and it was a possibility that he would—hurt him, I didn’t want it. It wouldn’t help me. It _didn’t_ help me. Whatever else these—bullies do to you, they cannot take what makes you the person you are.”

Kadar’s face was pink around his nose and his eyes. He nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “but I _really_ don’t want them to hurt me anymore.” Then he blew a great breath out and shrugged. “Thank you,” he said. “You didn’t have to—you know, share.”

“No problem.”

For a minute they lasped into awkward silence. Desmond thought about sending another message to Altair and just about the time he was reaching for his phone to do it, Kadar interrupted him by saying, “so, what are the odds that your angry Italian girl cousin is going to realize all those episodes were reruns?”

“Oh, pretty high,” Desmond said. “She won’t hurt you until you’re officially family. That takes a wedding, so you’ll be safe for a while.” Then he picked up his phone. “But you probably shouldn’t tempt fate like that.”

Kadar was grinning, perfectly proud of himself. “It was too easy. I mean, I’m good at that kind of thing but she was really easy.” He was far too proud of himself on that account. 

Lucy came back from (wherever she’d gone) and made a show of looking at the time. “Bedtime.” And she hugged Kadar like she wanted to squeeze all of the sorrow out of him (the way she used to hug him) before she showed him where he could sleep and gave him the rundown of how to use the guest shower and left him to sleep.

In the dark, in their room, Lucy’s arms were around his body and her breath was quiet. “I love you,” she said. Desmond kissed her hair and said, “I love you too.”


	69. Chapter 69

> **Lucy**
> 
> So I just need to know how weird it would be to invite your brother to go with my Mom, Claudia, and me to shop for a dress.
> 
> Which definition of weird would you like to apply
> 
> Whichever one would end with him feeling obligated to go when he doesn’t want to.
> 
> He seemed to have a whole plan about what dress I should get.
> 
> My options are limited here. My Mom will cry so she’s out. Desmond can’t go because tradition, Altair can barely dress himself, Ezio offered and he’s amazing at fashion but I don’t want to buy a dress the price of a house.
> 
> Cristina offered too but she’s got a toddler and is pregnant again so I’d rather not.
> 
> Cristina is Federico’s wife?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Altair really cannot dress himself
> 
> No he can’t.
> 
> Well Kadar will take any excuse to get himself to New York he can take. I’ll ask him. I’m sure he’ll be excited. What day?
> 
> April 27th
> 
> Procrastination is bad for your health
> 
> Shut up. Let me know as soon as you can?
> 
> sure

Perhaps the most annoying thing about being back in his own house wasn’t that Altair wasn’t around (perpetually obnoxious with his entire body interfering with Malik’s every thought, distracting him constantly away from anything but how naked they could be at any given moment), but the unfinished quality of his thoughts. Malik was sitting at his desk with his elbow against the top and his hand on his chin, alternating between sighing over his options for where to finish out his degree and whether or not he even wanted to bother. 

Every part of him _wanted to bother_ because he had started it and he had a plan that was already derailed by a year. His current standing as a student was laughable and considering how he kept finding himself in the company of incredibly attractive geniuses (half of which did nothing at all with their brains but obnoxiously read instructions in foreign languages and multiple large digit numbers in their head to fend off arousal) it seemed like a good idea to stay educated. 

But then he was left with the lingering doubt about how to pay for school. He made a healthy sum of money from the website (and more now that everyone was showing up and asking him questions and wanting to know everything about his life) but it wasn’t enough to pay for school. He wasn’t sure what Altair would do and how involved he should be in the decision about where to go and the bastard himself was _painfully_ unhelpful because Altair had only said, “go wherever you want, it doesn’t matter to me where I am.” Of course it didn’t because Altair had spent most of the past three years travelling from one place to another living out of hotels and guests rooms. His entire life fit into a suitcase and with more money than any person should ever have it didn’t seem like it mattered where you were.

Malik didn’t want to live in a dorm again. He also didn’t want to presume that Altair would rent an apartment (or buy a house, or buy an apartment building) because there was no reason to think that Altair would want to stay in some college town with any permanence.

Then again, Malik just wanted to get laid. His body was confused on many levels about how they had gone from having regular (continuous one might say) sex to making a choice to go back home just to follow Kadar around whenever he was home and make sure he wasn’t slipping back under the water. 

Absent of the ability to actually make a choice, Malik leaned back in his chair, “Kadar!”

Kadar fell off his bed (or sounded like he did) and padded up to his doorway with his finger bookmarking his place in whatever book he was reading. He leaned his weight against the frame and said, “what?” 

“Lucy wants to know if you’ll go with her to pick out her wedding dress. She said it was on the,” Malik picked up his phone to scroll back through the conversation, “twenty seventh.” Malik looked over at him and Kadar looked confused (but not disinterested). “She said that she needs someone with some idea of what looks good and it’s you or Ezio.” That made Kadar smile anyway. He pushed his lips together and dusted off his shirt with an air of importance. “…you have to ask Mom.”

“Mom’ll be fine with it. School’s almost over anyway.” He was still grinning as he turned away from the doorway. 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I might have to learn another language just to convey
> 
> No Ezio we are not having strippers at this bachelor party
> 
> In a way he’ll understand
> 
> You don’t need another language. You need someone with more authority.
> 
> I should have authority
> 
> Well you don’t. You’re younger than him.
> 
> Fine I’ll call Federico
> 
> I am doing all my boring things this week
> 
> Your monthly meetings?
> 
> Yes. All of them. I’ve had a suit on for two days.
> 
> I’m very impressed.
> 
> I think I want to go back to the same school I was at.
> 
> Can you get back in?
> 
> Probably. I’m going to call, see what I have to do.
> 
> Well hopefully it’s simple.
> 
> How’s your brother?
> 
> Fine, I guess.
> 
> He has therapy tomorrow.
> 
> When does he go back to school?
> 
> Friday.

London was deeply displeased that he had left her. She expressed her unhappiness by making a nest out of the space under his chin every time he laid down. She curled up between his neck and shoulder or between his chin and his chest and stayed there as if it were the most incredibly comfortable position in the world. 

Whenever he moved, or was standing (or sitting) she followed him around jumping after his footsteps. Desmond had expressed a deep hatred of her habit of jumping on the heels of people’s feet so he had taken it upon himself to break her of that habit. Now instead she whimpered after his feet and sat pathetically staring up at him whenever he was standing or sitting still. 

When he set the phone down, her ears moved forward and she jumped up from stillness to bound across his chest and pull at his fingers until he was petting her. Not satisfied with that, she tried to gnaw on his thumb and only managed to rub her wet mouth across the knuckle. “Fine,” he said (even if he didn’t want to), “where’s your toy? We’ll play.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Are you going to make sure your boyfriend is dressed correctly?
> 
> I will supervise every step of the dressing process.
> 
> We might be late.
> 
> Haha asshole. Apparently the asshole cousins think it’s important he’s wearing expensive clothes
> 
> Yeah. I thought they would.
> 
> I’d be tempted to say fuck them but I promised no fist fights at your wedding.
> 
> Who even cares?
> 
> Is it Mama Maria?
> 
> Or Giovanni.

Desmond was in bed because Lucy and him had made the choice to go to bed (because it was late) and he’d initially thought that meant they were going to have sex and then he thought it might have meant that they were just going to sleep. He didn’t expect to be sitting there with his back against the headboard, watching Lucy (wearing only her underwear like the world’s biggest tease) leafing through yet another wedding magazine. Since he had the time, he answered a few questions from the cousins that he’d been avoiding. 

“Did you get the time off work?” Desmond asked.

Lucy shrugged. “I put in for it again. The schedule doesn’t come out until the end of the week. I guess it doesn’t matter one way or another because I’m not working through my wedding.” She looked sideways at him, “what about you? Did you get the time off?”

“Yeah.” Truthfully, Desmond hasn’t really given his boss much of a choice. They both knew that he was only there because he needed something to do with himself the way they both knew that Desmond was exceptionally good at his job. It was an amicable understanding rather than an aggressive semi-threat. Still, there was no question about how Desmond could (but not would) simply quit. “What?” he asked. She was frowning at the pictures again. Some generic bride with a huge smile and some overly-happy guy with soft-focus edges holding hands as they ran down some stairs. 

Lucy picked up the magazine and dropped it over the side of the bed before she turned and looked at him. Her knees were bony protrusions under the sheet she had pulled over her lap. “Ok, what if we got married for real?” she asked.

That was not any of the possible things he considered she would say.

“Hear me out,” Lucy said. She put her hands to stall off his objections (not that he had any) and licked her lips. “Because, the only reason that this is a sham is because I _do not_ want to be forced to marry anyone. And I want to be smart about this? I mean, we have only been dating for a year? A year and a half? There’s probably a lot about each other that we don’t even know. So there’s stuff that we need to talk out. Do we even want to have children? When? How many? What kind of parenting are we going to use. That’s major shit that we haven’t even touched because we’ve been dealing with all these other things. I’m not saying that it’s been all peach-pie because fuck knows there are days I want to just scream at you until my head is going to fall off.” Lucy nodded as if he were unaware of her frustration. “The things we’ve been working through aren’t the sort of things that you can wave your hand to the side about and say ‘oh it’s fine because I love you and we’ll make it’. Because they are permanent, life-long things. We have to be realistic.”

Desmond nodded. “Yeah.” He wasn’t sure if he should apologize but prior conversations with Lucy of a similar type had led him to believe he shouldn’t. “But it won’t always be—severe.”

“Of course it won’t. The thing I don’t want,” Lucy said, “is to marry you out of obligation. To marry you because someone said I should. To marry you because society said that I should or because it’s just the next natural step.” 

At this point, Desmond was not even sure what she was saying. “Ok. I thought that was why we weren’t getting married.”

Lucy smiled and it did nothing to help his confusion. “It is. But, I want to marry you because a few years ago you walked into my coffee shop and I haven’t stopped fantasizing about your body since.” She punctuated that notion by inviting herself right into his lap. “I want to marry you because you kept the cups I drew for you. I want to marry you because I love you as much, _right now_ as I did the very first moment I realized that I loved you. I _love_ you; I want to be with you. I want to make compromises about public displays of affection, I want to fight about how much money is too much to spend on underwear, I want to come home and know you’re going to be playing your stupid games. I want to brag about you to my family and not because you’re the hottest man I’ve ever had, and not because you’re wealthy beyond their imagination but because you’re the _strongest_ , _kindest_ , most _amazing_ person that I’ve ever met.”

Desmond smiled at her and Lucy kissed him. His hands were on her back and her hands were cupped around his face. When she tipped her head back it was just far enough for her to say, “will you marry me, Desmond?”

“Yes,” Desmond said. And her smile was the most perfect and beautiful thing he had ever seen.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Please come take your boyfriend back
> 
> While I would love to, it’s mostly up to him.
> 
> I went to see a therapist today
> 
> I’m not sure what I thought would happen
> 
> What did happen?
> 
> We talked? There’s a couple of tests they want first
> 
> To rule out things. Asked about my feelings about meds
> 
> How do you feel?
> 
> Tired.
> 
> Just, distract him for a while. I really am okay
> 
> You need to tell him yourself. But you can mention I’d be happy to distract him.  
> 

Kadar had tried to work out a way to warm up to telling Malik to leave him the fuck alone but it seemed no matter what version he went with, it all ended abrupt and unfriendly. So he went to hide in the kitchen with his Mother while she was making dinner. Her concern was far less obnoxious than Malik’s who eyed him like a vulture eyed a half-dead meal. 

“Why are you hiding from your brother?” Mother asked (after only three minutes of Kadar’s attempt to hold a useful conversation about how to cook). She was _amused_ and that was far less trying on his nerves than Malik’s concern. 

“I tried to get his boyfriend to take him back.” Kadar sighed. He could just make out Mother’s eye roll in his peripheral vision. “Yeah, right? Altair said that he wasn’t going to because I needed to talk to Malik myself. What good is sharing custody if the other person won’t take him when he’s annoying?”

Mother looked up then with her eyebrows all knitted together. “You should talk to your brother.” But the words sounded like a wonder, as if she was working out how she felt about agreeing with Altair. “Tell him that you appreciate his support and you simply need space if that’s what you need. Remember that when your positions were reverse you did not leave him either.”

“That was different,” Kadar said softly. “Malik was _hurt_. I mean, he was physically hurt. And emotionally. And I’m not Malik. He wouldn’t ever have asked for help, he wouldn’t ever have admitted he was hurt—I know that I could benefit from this and that I—” am hurt. Kadar growled a noise of aggravation at his Mother’s knowing stare. “Can I go to New York on the twenty seventh to help Lucy pick a wedding dress?”

Her exasperation was so immediate and so complete that it was a full-body gesture. “You have already missed too much school! You expect that I should allow you to miss another day of school for such a—” It was obvious the only words she could attribute to the idea of going to New York to pick out a stranger’s wedding dress was ludicrous. “—event.” There was another gesture, far less kind, to indicate the level of her disbelief had escalated. “This woman is a stranger, why would she want to invite you to do such a thing?”

“When I was there last time we were talking about what sort of wedding dress she should get. That’s the only guess I have.” It wasn’t the only guess he had but it was the only one that he was willing to offer his Mother. The alternatives were a lot like pity or sympathy and Mother (like Malik) couldn’t cope with either of them. 

Mother just pressed her lips together in a thin-flat-line. “How quickly do you need an answer?”

“As soon as possible?” 

Then Mother sighed. “This will be the last day that you will miss school. You may only have one day.” Every part of her body seemed to be rebelling against the very notion of it. There was no telling what her logic (for allowing him to go) was but as soon as she agreed, the tension in her forehead relaxed at bit as she watched his face. “When did you develop such an informed opinion about wedding dresses?”

Kadar told her the whole sad story of his addiction to reality TV, of the hours of his life spent watching shows about wedding dresses and finished it off with his innate understanding of what looked best on people. “—are you coming to the wedding?” was the end of his monologue, just about the time they were setting the table for dinner.

“I do not know why I would,” Mother said. “I am not familiar with any of the people that will be there. I especially do not know the couple that is getting married.” Her shrug was gentle, not-judgmental. “As I understand it, your brother has already agreed to go. I imagine that if you are going to miss school to choose a wedding dress that you will be attending as well. It is not for me.”

“I guess,” Kadar agreed. “I want to see the mansion. I’ve seen pictures. It looks amazing. There’s this one staircase that’s like this giant dual-sided thing, it comes down on both sides of the room and it’s like—it’s hard to describe but I just want to stand and look at it, you know?” He finished setting out the plates and dusted his hands off on the sides of his pants. Mother was making a sour face at the dish of food she was setting in the middle of their three plates. When it was down, her hands folded over the back of a chair. “What?” Kadar whispered.

When Mother looked up, her smile seemed sad. “When you were small, I thought one day I would lose you chasing after something shiny in the street. I held your hand so tight it would turn pink. I taught your brother to always keep his hand on you. I thought you would grow out of it; I thought it was frivolous and unhealthy for you to be so delighted by something so simple.” There was no telling from her voice what she felt about these revelations. “I think I underestimated how important finding joy in your everyday truly is. When I think of my fears about the future of my sons, for _you_ , my fear has always been that you would be led to ruin by something shimmering in the distance. So it is strange to me _now_ to feel such relief at hearing you talk with enthusiasm about… _anything_.”

Kadar could think of nothing to say that would be reassuring. Instead of trying to find words, he hugged his Mother. She kissed his forehead and hugged him as tight as she could manage before releasing him to go and fetch Malik for supper.

\--

> Desmond
> 
> Save me
> 
> From what?
> 
> Lucy’s Mom and her two very loud cousins
> 
> Sorry.
> 
> I’m very bad with potential in-laws.
> 
> But you haven’t slept with any of these people
> 
> I’m not getting dragged into it.
> 
> Fine, I’m coming to you then

Altair wasn’t wearing much when Desmond invited himself over. He had taken the day (a terribly lazy Saturday) to do absolutely nothing with his life but watch TV, annoy Malik through texting and appreciate the simple joy of being entirely single and worthless. London had only briefly protested his failure to even properly put on pants but given in and spent most of the day sleeping next to him or playing with her toys on the floor. 

Desmond only sighed at Altair sprawled on the couch and paused long enough on his way to a chair to pick up a folded throw blanket and threw it at Altair’s (nearly entirely naked) body before he dropped into the arm chair. His attempt to look interested in the TV lasted only for a second. Altair was content to let him pretend in the few seconds before Desmond said, “so, I think we’re really getting married.”

If Altair turned the TV off following that announcement it was only because it was appropriate. He sat up on the couch with the blanket in a puddle in his lap. “I don’t know how I should respond. I feel usually this is a congratulations moment but you don’t look— _happy_.”

It was always hard to tell with Desmond what emotion he was attempt to express. Even now that he was shrugging his shoulders, his lips were pulling up at on the edges with the same little-boy like smile that he used whenever he was attempt to feign joy that didn’t quite saturate his entire body. “I’m scared shitless,” he said. And that much seemed to be _true_. “I love her though. I _want_ to marry her. I want to do this without having to turn it into _another_ long conversation about what’s _wrong_ with my head. I don’t want to—burden her with the stupidity in my skull.”

“You know she’d want you to.” 

Desmond sat back in the chair and slouched into it with his head tipped back so he was staring straight up to the ceiling. “I know.” Then he turned his head to look at Altair. “What about you? How are things going with Malik? Did he figure out—uh, where he was going to school?”

“Yeah. He’s just going back to finish out his degree.”

“Have you talked about how you’re going to manage that distance? Or how he feels about you stalking him halfway across the country?” Desmond was very good at deflecting and Altair was going to call bullshit on his carefully constructed concern if not for how the questions and the studious stare that followed them seemed to be a relief to Desmond. 

“Let’s remember he stalked me first,” Altair said. “We haven’t made any serious plans. I think that it would be easier for him to have an apartment than to live on campus. I don’t know if he’s working around to asking me if I’m going to live out there near him or— I don’t know. We were talking about how he could work and go to school to afford a place but I didn’t know what to say to that?” None of the things he wanted to say (well, I can just rent you somewhere), (I can rent somewhere and you can live there even if I’m not there), (you can just ask for money, I have money) seemed like a good option. 

“How does he feel about the money?” Desmond asked.

“Inconsistently,” Altair said. Then he shrugged. “I don’t think he expects me to stay around. I don’t mean he thinks I’m going to leave him but—he talks like he doesn’t expect me to be around.” 

Desmond nodded like it made _sense_. “You don’t.” Then he went on to add: “you know that you don’t sit still. You travel, you go wherever you can go. You have since you declared yourself an adult. It’s important that the two of you talk about those kinds of things. _Honestly._ Would you be happy staying in one place? Would he be happy travelling? Would you be happy apart?”

“I don’t know,” Altair said. “I’ve never loved someone. Are you afraid of marrying Lucy for legitimate reasons or self-doubting reasons?”

That earned him a sour frown. Desmond let out a breath and shrugged. “It’s not that easy to tell them apart. The reasons I want to marry her outweigh the worries that I shouldn’t.” 

“While you’re listing reasons you shouldn’t consider that Lucy Miles does not sound as good as Lucy Stillman. So make sure you talk about how stupid your last name is.” Altair nodded and Desmond dug the pillow out from behind his back to throw at him. 

“You’re stupid,” Desmond said. “What the hell is your last name even? Talk about dumb-ass last names.” He sneered at Altair with comic exaggeration. “Bet your ass Malik won’t take that name on when you get married.”

Altair laughed at that whole ridiculous idea. “You think Altair Al-Sayf sounds better than Malik Ibn-La’A—you know what, it does. Never mind. Point taken. I’m right about Miles though.”

Desmond was shaking his head at that stupid objection. “What were you watching? I don’t want to go back until everyone’s asleep.” They lapsed into watching nonsense TV.

\--

sass-badger: to all interested parties, we are healthy, young males that are currently in the infancy of our physical relationship. The answer to how often we have sex is obvious. (35m ago)

Sass-badger: as far as who ‘wears the pants in our relationship’, as far as I know we both wear pants most of the time. (30m ago)

Malik hadn’t brought most of his new clothes back home with him. He didn’t put too much thought into whether he left them behind so he’d have something to wear at Altair’s place without having to carry bags with him back and forth or if he didn’t want his Mother to find out. He hadn’t ever been bothered by wearing his wardrobe before but her dislike of Altair was already so strong that he saw no reason to aggravate it by throwing in the conspicuous insult of having (practically a whole new wardrobe) purchased for him on a whim.

“What are you going to do without us around?” Kadar asked. They were all packed to go Sunday morning, taking a train into New York (because Malik refused to let Altair drive all the way to get them). He said it like he thought she’d sit around and weep.

Mother looked classy-as-always with her chin up and her eyes bright. She said, “I have plans to entertain a guest. It’s very convenient that you’ve chosen to leave or it might have gotten embarrassing.”

Kadar just stared at her. “Mom are you bringing a boy home? Do we need to talk about this?”

“Only if you are certain you want to know my very specific plans.” And her smile was very pleased at Kadar’s embarrassed flush. “It seems strange that both of my sons have _used_ their bedrooms thoroughly and I have not.” The smile on her face was like poking things into Kadar’s embarrassment to make it go _redder_. 

“I actually haven’t had sex in my room,” Malik said. He tucked his phone into his pocket. Both his Mother and Kadar turned to stare at him like he was insane. “What? I haven’t. It’s only Kadar that’s had sex in the house.”

“But Leonardo,” Kadar said. Mother didn’t nod but it was implied nonetheless. 

“We didn’t have sex. _Here_ , anyway. We need to go. Mom, have fun. Maybe let us meet Mr. Jacobs as your boyfriend one day?” Malik tugged at Kadar’s sleeve while his brother stood there still staring at him in disbelief. 

“I will consider it.” Then she kissed their foreheads and sent them on their way. 

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Please explain to your dick friend that I don’t need an arranged marriage to make his life easier.
> 
> I would try but I think he already knows.
> 
> I don’t want to be engage to Ezio because ‘I’d allow them to still fuck’ even after we were married.
> 
> These are real conversations you have with him?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Also, apparently Ezio’s Dad is some kind of super homophobic asshole so watch out for that.
> 
> I really would have thought it was the Mother
> 
> I heard from Leonardo who heard from the older brother that it’s the Father.
> 
> So watch out.
> 
> Well that chain of communication seems reliable
> 
> Does Ezio know he’s engaged to you?
> 
> I don’t fucking know.

Desmond had been hiding (as he put it) in Altair’s apartment since before Malik even arrived. He stayed the whole of the afternoon, occupying them with entertaining bar stories (that made Kadar laugh like he was dying) and then proceeded to cook them dinner and hang out playing cards until it was dark and his phone went off to beckon him away. 

Kadar was sitting on the opposite side of the table with his cards still in his hands like he was really going to insist that they finish. While there was something _easy_ , _warm_ and fun about playing cards with this strange new set of people he’d found, Malik felt like the little bastard knew that he needed to get lost. “What are you grinning about?” Kadar asked (oh-so-casually).

“Go to bed,” Malik said rather than answer. He slapped his own cards down on the table because Altair was taking Desmond to the (door or the elevator, or all the way to his apartment) and they had a few minutes to glare at one another. “Don’t smile at me.”

“We’re in the middle of a hand,” Kadar countered. He looked at the pile of cards in the middle with a critical eye. “I don’t like quitting in the middle.” His smirk was so clearly proud of itself that Malik wanted to reach across the table and punch him. “Fine,” he said after a minute. “But only because you were so gracious about Stephanie.”

Altair came back about the same time that Kadar was walking out. They passed one another in the doorway and Altair said, “hey—I thought we were finishing the game?”

“Well, we were,” Kadar answered. “But Malik hasn’t gotten laid in a week.”

The silence that followed the statement was a floundering-startled silence. Altair made a few abortive attempts at communicating something before he turned his head away from Kadar to look at Malik with a smile spreading smug-and-proud all across his face. “Well good night then.” And that was all he spared for Kadar. 

Malik rolled his eyes in his brother’s direction. “That is not a factual representation of what happened.” Yes it was. “Don’t smile at me like that.” He meant to say something else but Altair was leaning down with one hand on the back of the chair and one hand on the table, looking _unbearable_. “If you don’t stop smiling at me like that, you aren’t getting laid.”

“Sure I won’t,” Altair mumbled at him just before he kissed Malik. It wasn’t a sweet-innocent little brush of lips but an encompassing kiss. The sort of thing that went just-right with arms snaking around his chest, with a squeezing tightness that lifted him off the chair and pulled him snugly against Altair’s chest. It was an embarrassing stumble of their bodies too comfortably attached to separate, working their way through the apartment. Altair’s hands under his clothes before the door was closed. Malik’s breathing in heavy-heated-pants as he dragged them down on the bed. The kiss was senseless frustration worked loose in needy grabs and selfish demands. 

\--

notyourbrother: it may come as a surprise to many of you, but not only do I not care what my brother does in bed with his boyfriend, I wouldn’t actually ask because it’s rude. (21m ago)

Altair’s (apartment? Condo? Home?) was overwhelming with luxuries. Besides the newness of everything from the bathroom to the blankets that still smelled like the packaging they must have come out of. The closet in the guest room was even filled with clothes that were neatly hung by color, all of them with the look of having been brand new (none of which were a size that he could wear). The kitchen was made of gleaming surfaces with well-stocked cupboards and a pantry that was precisely stacked with more categories of food than the average supermarket. Kadar stole a box of cookies (for convenience) and a juice out of the fridge and invited himself to the bask in the sunlight that came in through the massive windows that lined one wall of the living room. He laid on some sort of lounge and read through the nonsense on his feed.

The first sign of life was the aggravated shuffle of socked feet and Malik’s recognizable growl. Kadar watched him on his slow trek toward the kitchen, saw the sneer on his face when he realized Kadar wasn’t there but sitting by the windows. He had to change course to come over and sit on the end of the lounge to stare at him dispassionately. His hair was a disaster of points and peaks, ruffled up by sleeping too well and flattened on the one part of his head where the pillow must have been pressed. 

“Sleep well?” Kadar asked. 

“Yes,” Malik said. Then he yawned and scratched at the top of his head. The flat of his palm ran over the mess of hair, trying to push it down and succeeding in doing nothing but making it spring up in defiance again. “Are you going to be okay going with all these women?”

“They don’t scare me like they do you,” Kadar said. He spoke like it was a secret (and it wasn’t) and Malik gave him the finger in response. “I’ll be fine. You can stop worrying excessively.”

Malik squinted at him and then shrugged. “I don’t think my worrying is excessive.”

“I think your worrying is an excuse,” Kadar said. It was a half-thought in his head, the sort of thing that knocked around in the mire of his other worries and doubts. When he said it, Malik’s face twisted out of sleepy disinterest into something far more pointed and angry. “I know that you genuinely care about me. I know that I benefit from knowing you worry. But, I don’t need you to follow me around sighing over me. I need you to worry and I need you to believe that I will be _fine_ again. You do one of those really well but not the other.”

Anger was one of Malik’s primary emotions. It was the first thing that showed on his face before it mutated and faded into something that wasn’t entirely understandable. “You scared me. How could it get this bad without anyone knowing?”

That was entirely laughable. “We’re brothers. Think of everything you’ve ever hidden and then imagine someone else doing the same thing. It shouldn’t be that hard for you to figure it out.”

“You were always better than me,” Malik said. Then he sighed. “I can stop worrying as much if I can rely on you letting me know before it gets that bad again.” 

“Ok,” Kadar said. He nodded and Malik nodded back. “So, what do you do in bed with your boyfriend?”

Malik rolled his eyes. “Exactly what you think we do.” Then he stood up again and stretched. The clothes he was wearing either weren’t his or weren’t anything that he’d owned before his honeymoon. (If Altair were responsible he was clearly far better at dressing other people than himself because for a sleep-rumpled frowner, Malik looked very attractive.) 

“But he has a giant penis.”

Altair announced his arrival with a sudden hiccup of a laugh that undermined the slightly embarrassed grin on his face. “Good morning,” he said when it was obvious from his expression that he had thought of and discarded a few dozen stupid other phrases. He was shirtless (of course). “Lucy’s coming up here to get you. She said she wanted to give you a brief primer on surviving her relatives.” He yawned and rubbed his belly. “And Claudia is going.”

“Stop smiling,” Malik said. 

“I’m trying,” Altair promised. Anything else he might have said on the matter was interrupted by the sound of knocking on his front door closely followed by:

“Asshole, I called you so this would be unlocked!” Lucy banged on it again to emphasize her point. When Altair let her in, she scoffed at him and motioned him away while he stuck his tongue out at her and whispered something quieter than the rest of them could hear. Lucy smacked him. “Just wait until you have to go pick out your wedding dress. I’m sure your family has no opinions at all.” Then she dismissed him with a wave of her hand and came over to where Kadar was sitting. “Hello,” she said as she dropped to sit next to him. “I just came to warn you about my family.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Please stop having sex long enough to tell me what kind of guy Desmond is. Like in a perfect world, what sort of thing would he want his bride to wear?
> 
> Whatever she wanted?
> 
> That’s really unhelpful. 
> 
> I hope Claudia never gets married. She has terrible taste in dresses.
> 
> Who is paying for this?
> 
> I am.
> 
> Does she know that?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Do you have a price limit?
> 
> I don’t; she does
> 
> I see that. Any tips on getting rid of these women so I can talk to Lucy?
> 
> Ask Claudia for help.
> 
> back to sex now

Altair threw the phone back on the nightstand next to the bed and smiled up at Malik who was (im)patiently waiting on his knees between Altair’s legs. While they hadn’t been having sex (exactly) when the phone went off, they had most definitely been on the verge of starting to. “Sorry,” Altair said. Then he put his arms behind his head and arched his back just a little (to show off) and Malik’s dispassionate stare got a little less impressed. “So, what exactly do you tell your brother about our sex life?”

“Nothing,” Malik said. He shifted his knees forward so Altair’s thighs were resting across them and rested his hand against his leg just on the inside of his knee. While his denial wasn’t entirely believable, the way he took the time to observe Altair’s (naked) body with such precise attention to detail undermined any resentment for the lie. “Leonardo and him became best friends after the accident.” Malik shrugged like it didn’t matter, “and he’s impossible to disgust. I tried to get rid of him once by telling him I was a bottom and his response was something about how domineering and impossible to please I was.”

“You do like getting your way.” In fact, Altair could track how comfortable Malik was in their relationship based on how specific and demanding he became during sex. The infrequent times he didn’t give instructions involved blowjobs. Even now, Malik was frowning at him, pinching the sensitive skin on the inside of his thigh between his finger and thumb. Altair wrapped both legs around him and pulled him forward so he had to catch himself on his hand. “I didn’t say I didn’t like that about you.”

Malik’s response was to roll his hips, the hard length of his dick slid up across his belly with a very specific sort of intent. (One that was often teased but never followed through with.)

“I just need to know what the guidelines for talking about our sex life are.” He pulled one hand out from under his head to run down Malik’s chest. “Desmond’s a prude but every conversation I’ve ever had with Maria ends up with us talking about sex.”

“Have you given me rave reviews?” While Malik’s face maintained an air of playfulness, his tone was bitter and dark. It snuck into the edge of his words. 

“Usually it’s either about how she thinks I should try out vibrators or its how very much I enjoy giving head. She thinks I’ll need knee replacement surgery before I’m thirty if I don’t get a new hobby.”

Malik rolled his eyes but his smile was genuine. “I don’t want the world to know how we have sex. If you trust Maria, then I don’t care if you talk about our sex life. I mean—obviously if you’re not happy about something I want you to talk to me first. What about you?”

That was a far stickier situation. A delicate sort of balance that Altair had worked out in his head because there were only so many people Malik was _likely_ to talk about him with and it seemed like purposeful ignorance to assume that Leonardo wasn’t the top of the list. “Sex story Saturday,” Altair reminded him. He tickled the soft skin on Malik’s left side, up above the scarring in the place he discovered made the man squirm and squeal embarrassing laughter when exploited. “I don’t trust Leonardo.” He said it while Malik wasn’t looking directly at him (but down at his hand, trying to move away from his fingers). It was a coward move and Altair knew it. He didn’t want to see the exact moment that it registered on Malik’s face because he didn’t want to know that instinct response was favored against him. It wasn’t fair anyway and he knew it. “He used you against me already.”

When Malik did look at him, his expression was neutral. He nodded. “I know he did. I don’t tell him about us. I mean, not really. Not like this.” That must not have been entirely true because Malik cleared his throat. “I mean, nothing specific. I won’t anymore if you don’t want me to.”

“I don’t know.” That was the best he could answer. “I don’t want him to have ammunition. I don’t want to tell you who you can talk to.” But he did, in a way, in _this_ way where he couldn’t measure up to the great Leonardo that had turned Ezio fucking Auditore away from women and had him pining across the country for the unattainable affection of the artist. “Nothing specific is fine?”

“Think about it,” Malik said. Then he kissed Altair before they could kill the mood (any farther) with their interfering worries.

\--

NotYourBrother: @son-of-no-one, you’re picking out your own wedding dress. (10m ago)

Claudia had met them at the shop. While she had been gracious and loving to Lucy’s Mother (Delores, call me ‘Delly’) and her two cousins (Katie and Sam short-for-Samantha), she had greeted Kadar by punching him in the arm. As soon as the pale blonde girls were safely in the hands of a sales representative there to help them find the dress of Lucy’s dreams, Claudia pointed at his face in a quiet-hiss-voice said, “cazzo, you thought I wouldn’t figure out they were all reruns?”

“I thought you wouldn’t hurt me until I was family,” Kadar said back. Then he smiled at her outrage. “Besides you were very easy.”

“I am not! I did not suspect _you_ is all. You have the face of a child. You _are_ a child. Look at this,” she plucked at his clothes, “you are still being dressed by your Mother.” Then she waved her hand the air and muttered something in Italian that he had no hope of understanding. “You are family. I do not need a marriage to know that the baby never lets go.”

That was four hours ago and the whole party had reached a point of critical mass where the representative was trying to point out the positive things about Lucy’s Mother’s choice of a gown (some monstrosity with sleeves and lace and a high neck that wouldn’t have been out of place in a costume drama) and how they were ‘traditional’ without making that sound exactly how awful it looked on Lucy. The cousins, however, were loudly voicing their hate of it and voting for something made of tulle that made Lucy looked like a violently pissed off ballerina. 

“Hey,” Kadar whispered at Claudia who had given up on the debacle about the time the sweet-voiced cousins had dismissed her opinion because she had not known Lucy long enough to know what she liked. Claudia’s response had been a stare that would have sent smarter women crying for protection but seemed to do nothing but make the two cousins laugh. (They had a fair point, they had known Lucy far longer. They just had no fashion sense.) “I need you to get rid of the women.”

Claudia slapped her phone against her thigh. “No,” she said.

“Why?”

“Because you and I both know that you want them gone because—why don’t you know Italian? Everything is easier when you don’t have to whisper.” She rolled her eyes at him as if it were his failing that he wasn’t familiar with her language. “You want them gone so you can put Lucy in whatever dress you prefer I refuse to participate in helping you con the poor woman into your choice.” She even smiled at the end.

Kadar rolled his eyes, “I’m sorry that I tricked you, but I do actually have a decent idea what would look good on her. If we don’t get rid of these three, Lucy is going to end up going to her wedding in a potato sack. Look at her face.” They both turned to look at Lucy: hands on her hips, mouth pulled into a scowl, and her forehead wrinkled in a way that seemed to suggest the only thing saving her family from being slaughtered was the fact that there were witnesses. Claudia only sighed and tipped her head close enough to whisper:

“Which dress?”

“Sleeveless, halter top, something with limited ornamentation, probably satin—I think it’ll have to be white because she seems to like the white ones—and most likely an A line or a modified A line.” He pointed across the show room to an imperfect example of what he meant. “Like that cut but not that dress.” And when he glanced up at Claudia she was just _gawking_ at him. It as an inappropriate time to notice how pretty her entire face was, how dark her brown eyes were or how smooth her skin was but it was hard not to notice when it was so very close.

Claudia shook her head. “If you dress her in a potato sack; I will eat your testicles for dinner.” Then she slid up to her feet with a great demonstration of thirst and hunger. She made a spectacle out of inviting the girls to a delicious ‘luncheon’ at this place she knew just down the street and even assured them that she’d pay for it herself. As her treat for her mistake of butting in earlier. And when she had all of the ladies eating out of her hand, she turned halfway around to look at Lucy, “you can join us when you’ve finished changing of course. We’ll make sure there’s room at the table, just ask for my party.” Then she scooped the dazzled little blondes up and carried them off.

Lucy rolled her eyes before looking over at him. Her expression bordered on helpless. “Not hungry?”

“No,” he said. (That was a lie.) “Which dress is your favorite?”

“I haven’t tried it on yet,” Lucy said. “I’ve been doing _this_ since we got here.” She motioned at the terrible choice she had on. Then looked over at the poor sales lady that was so happy to have gotten rid of the party that there might have been tears in her eyes. “Could I try it on?” The two of them left to find whatever dress it was that Lucy preferred. 

Kadar enjoyed the quiet elegance of the showroom, wandered from display to display trying to imagine how they would look on Lucy (and trying to figure out why exactly he’d come to be the one here when there were probably much more qualified people). By the time he came back to the couch in front of their mirror, Lucy had re-emerged wearing the wedding-dress equivalent of a paper sack. While there was nothing at all wrong with it, the utter lack of anything was devastatingly plain. 

Lucy didn’t even look impressed when she looked at it in the mirror. 

“Hey,” he said. She turned around to look at him. “I bought this shirt at a thrift store. It cost me a dollar. I have a closet full of them.” He plucked at the shirt. “The most expensive thing I own is this gift card your future brother in law gave me for Christmas.” Lucy snorted at that. “I don’t want to tell you that you chose that dress because it has to be the cheapest one in the entire store but I can tell you that, even if it bothers you, even if it’s not something that you would _ever_ do for yourself, this dress? It’s not about the money. It’s about the gesture that’s being made. Altair doesn’t have to worry about money, he never has and he never will. You and I, we grew up out in the real world where it comes down to _food_ or _power_ some weeks and things like twenty five thousand dollar wedding dresses are _offensive_ and _wasteful_.”

“I also like the shape of it,” Lucy said. It wasn’t much of a defense.

“Let him do this for you. Let yourself do this _for you_.” Kadar took her hand and turned her around to face the mirror. “You are a beautiful woman. You could look beautiful in a sack. I know you keep saying that you don’t care and I know you keep saying that you’ve never even thought about it but I also know that you’ve been flipping through wedding magazines and watching dress shows for weeks and there’s no way you don’t have some idea of what you want.” 

Lucy bit her lip. Then she looked over at him. The step she was standing on made her even with him. Her face was soft but she shook her head at him. “I really don’t. I like this,” she spread her hands down over her belly. “I like the way it fits and the way the skirt falls. I want something like this.”

Which was very much different than anything her Mother had dressed her in up to that moment. The sales woman stepped forward to offer suggestions about similar gowns with a little more ‘interest’ (probably several more zeroes attached as well) and then went to fetch some of the options. 

“My cousins are jealous,” Lucy said. She took in a breath and lifted her chin up. “They always wanted to marry some rich old man and live off his life’s work. That was the fantasy when we were kids, you know. I’m going to marry a rich man. They can’t stand it.” And her lips quirked up into little points at the edge. She turned her head again. “There’s nothing wrong with it,” she said and motioned at his clothes, “I grew up in thrift store clothes. Nobody cares.”

“Well I do,” Kadar said. “I mean, not about the thrift store thing. I just don’t want all my shirts to have buttons. I’m saving that rebellion for when I finish high school.” Then he motioned over at the lady that was returning with her arm full of gowns. “In the meantime, find something that will make your cousins puke from jealousy?”

“I like the way you think,” Lucy said. “I’ll be back.”

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> I’m sorry the dress cost so much.
> 
> We need to talk about your concept of money
> 
> Is it perfect for you?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> You need to marry Malik because our family needs Kadar.
> 
> Unless gay marriage is legalized nationwide you may need a back-up plan.
> 
> Claudia’s not dating anyone.
> 
> Claudia is manipulative and petty.
> 
> Don’t underestimate Kadar in that category either. Maybe not petty but he’s definitely manipulative.
> 
> Malik said he was
> 
> Not quite in the same complimentary way
> 
> In my case, he used his power for good.
> 
> I like the kid. We need to make sure we take care of him.
> 
> Must go, Malik’s Mom just came outside
> 
> Good luck.

Altair had waited outside because it was simplest. Malik went inside to fetch whatever things he hadn’t wanted to carry on the train (that he insisted on taking despite Altair’s protests that he’d come pick them up) but that he did want with him. The decision that Malik would come back with him hadn’t even been made (to his knowledge) until they were parked in front of his house. Kadar hadn’t seemed surprised by it, beyond scoffing and saying, “I’m doubling my cat sitting fee,” as he got out of the car.

Lamah was wearing a sweater that wrapped around her slim body and left far too much excess to hang down. She sat on the step next to him and offered him a cup of hot (tea, most likely) that he took if only to be polite. She didn’t seem to care if he drank it or not because she was looking out at the street in front of them even as she pressed her hands together with indecision. 

The silence stretched on-and-on, growing more taut and fragile as it went. Every passing second a small eternity spent rotating the mug of tea and trying to work out if he were meant to say something or if he should wait in anxious silence until she spoke first. 

“I did not see good in you,” Lamah said (at last). “I did not see the _potential_ for good.” She turned her head and glanced at him, looked at his hand where the scar from breaking the wall in Maria’s house had torn his skin. “You understand why I would be doubtful?”

“Yes,” Altair said. 

“I am beginning to change my mind. I am beginning to see that you are more than just the body that my son has lusted after. There is something in your heart and in your head besides self-interest and arrogance. I think it is new to you.”

Altair shrugged because nodding seemed like admitting too much to a woman that had already listed the reasons that she didn’t trust or like him. He thought she would launch into another such lecture now but instead she shifted so she could look at him more fully.

“If you are truly set on this course; I hope that you succeed. Remember that nothing is accomplished without effort and that any effort but your best is wasted. No man—not even my son—can change you or heal you. All these things, all these changes and this necessary…growth must come from inside of you.” 

Altair sat up straighter. There was a dozen half-realized things floating around his head that he wanted to say but not many of them made sense in the current circumstances. He cleared his throat after a minute, “I— I love him. That’s not why all this,” he motioned at himself. At his own body that he couldn’t have imagined having as his own just two years ago. “started. I wasn’t happy and everyone was fine with it. They didn’t care and it’s easy to not care about it either as long as nobody else does. Some jerk on the internet showed up and _cared_ , if only to tell me what I was doing wrong. I want to be a better person. I always have. I didn’t know how much I craved that change until someone finally showed me how bad I really was.” But that was far-more than he had intended to say.

Lamah nodded her head. “Be loyal. Be kind.” Then she reached out with her hand (very cautiously) and patted it against the back of his. She got up and left him sitting on the stoop with the cup of tea (that he wouldn’t drink) and a confusion of feelings about the whole encounter. 

By the time Malik came out (several minutes later), the tea was cold and Altair had settled on a feeling of encouragement. “Why are you smiling?” he asked.

“I’m always smiling when I see you,” he said. And Malik rolled his eyes and grinned back at him.


	70. Chapter 70

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to all the dears at tumblr that helped me come up with invasive/slightly rude questions for Altair and co. and for letting me use your screennames so I didn't have to come up with ones myself. (on most of them.)

son-of-no-one: I will answer the next six questions I get, fairly and honestly, as long as they do not ask explicit information about my or @sass-badger’s physical bodies. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “@epherians, could we expect more sexy Saturdays of your escapades?!” That is a good question. While I don’t mind, I have a feeling that these stories are somewhat less amusing to @sass-badger. (1h ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, I could post the ones where you don’t sleep with the people. Those are the ones that are truly amusing. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: @epherians, I believe the feature may undergo a change. Into what I am not certain. (1h ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “@kansama, are you afraid of going to hell because of living your lives in sin?” I don’t believe in any god, heaven or hell. As such, I am not distracted by a fear of these unknown. The only sin I have to atone for is my inability to share blankets. (58m ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “commissarelexii, are you dating Malik because he lost a bet? Which one of you is the pitcher and the catcher? Did Malik turn you gay?” @sass-badger did bet me I couldn’t get those signatures and he lost that bet. (57m ago)

Son-of-no-one: but we were dating before that, primarily over the internet. Neither of us play baseball. Me because I find the sport boring, he’s mildly uncoordinated. Malik did not turn me gay but loving him helped me face my (57m ago)

Son-of-no-one: own internalized homophobia. I’ve been attracted to men and women for as long as I’ve been attracted to anyone. I just was not always okay with it. (57m ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “zombeemonkey: which one of you is the girl?” Last I checked we were both men. I will update you if that changes. (54m ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “grey_scale: What did you do in those weeks you disappeared? Was there a lot of sex involved? is that why you disappeared? to have sex?” That wasn’t the only thing we did. Possibly a good forty percent of our time was spent doing other things. (52m ago)

Sass-Badger: @son-of-no-one, *twenty (51m ago)

Son-of-no-one: RT: “sass-badger: *twenty”, if you exclude the time that we were sleeping I’d say we could go so far as to say fifteen. (51m ago)

Sass-badger: RT: “noni-mouse: why does @sass-badger only have one arm? did he lose it by jerking off your huge dick?” @son-of-no-one, cannot answer this as he is lying on the ground convulsing with laughter. (49m ago)

Sass-badger: @noni-mouse, that is exactly what happened. (49m ago)

Altair had actually laughed himself off the edge of the couch and was laying on the ground hiccupping away the residual noise. His hands were resting on his chest as London happily laid just between his fingertips licking at the air toward his face. Her tail was wagging so fast it was a blur of color. “Oh God,” Altair wheezed at the end. He tipped his head so he could look up at Malik from his position. His whole face was pink-red from exertion and his eyes were bright with the tears he’d shed from laughing so hard. “I’m sorry.”

Malik dropped his phone on the table. “You don’t look sorry.” They hadn’t done a convincing job of getting dressed for the day. Altair was still shirtless, wearing nothing but his underclothes. There were puppy scratches on his thighs from London climbing up on top of him. “Don’t we have to do something today?”

“Uh,” Altair groped around his body for where he’d dropped his phone and checked the date before dropping the phone again. “No. We’re going to get the suits on the thirtieth.”

“Tomorrow,” Malik said. He grimaced at the whole notion of taking part in the massive use of money that getting a tailored suit (up to Altair’s standards) would require. Then he nudged at Altair’s naked knee and hooked his foot under his leg to pull him ever so slightly closer. His attempt was helped by the eager way the man followed after the motion and the way he picked London up and set her to the side. 

The puppy was displeased to be displaced. But Altair sat up (all rippling muscle, contracting to pull him up, a fine display of strength) and rolled onto his knees to lean against the couch between Malik’s lazily spread knees. “What did you say to the nice person on the internet?”

“I told them they were exactly right,” Malik said. His hand was slayed across the inside of his thigh, steadily getting more trapped between their bodies as Altair pulled him down more to make space for himself. “I already ate breakfast.” He simply had no desire to have sex with anyone once he’d eaten. All future attempts toward sex had to wait until his stomach felt less full and the lethargy of eating had faded. 

“I didn’t,” Altair said with both of his arms wiggling up under his back. His mouth was a damp pressure through the T-shirt Malik was wearing. His smile reflecting on Malik’s own face. For a minute, he contented himself with mouthing at Malik’s chest and then he set his chin against his ribs and looked up at him. “We should take London for a walk.”

Well that was not something he really wanted to do. Cats did not require walks (because cats were superior in many ways) but that argument had grown old with the number of times they’d had it already. Rather than respond to the suggestion, Malik pulled his hand out from between their bodies and brushed his fingers through Altair’s hair. It was getting longer, ruffled up between his fingers like it was, it was a good two inches long. Altair was careless with his hair, disinterested in the upkeep any time he wasn’t expected outside. “What are you going to do when I go back to college?”

From the way Altair’s whole body shifted, it was obvious he did not expect the question. There was a lie caught in his eyes that didn’t make it entirely to his mouth. “Stalk you? I haven’t decided.” 

“What is there to decide?”

Altair pressed his face against Malik’s chest, mumbled a grumbling kind of moan before his arms tightened around his body to lift him up. Altair moved him like he was barely an inconvenience, picked him up and pushed him against the back of the couch so there was space for the bastard between his legs _on_ the couch instead of on the floor. “Whether or not you want me there. I could rent a place out there, somewhere close to the college. You could live with me—I wouldn’t even be there all the time. I have to come back here for meetings once a month. I’m not very good at staying still even when I don’t have meetings.”

“That’s a lot of plane trips,” Malik said. He shifted until he was comfortable. “Do you think we’re ready to live together? This doesn’t count as practice either. We are not even playing house; at best we are a very long rambling amateur porn video.”

“You’re amateur,” Altair retorted. “I’m a professional.”

“ _Professional_ , what will you do when we’re living together and I have to study twenty four hours a day? When there’s nobody to clean up after you? Or when Sofia or Leonardo wants to come visit?”

There was the shrug again, the noncommittal non-answer. And Altair must have realized he was about to get called on it because he rolled his eyes and pinched Malik on the outside of his thigh before he could say anything. “I think it’ll be fine. We can hire a maid. You already ignore me for hours at a time.” But then again, “what will happen when I want to go somewhere? What happens in January when I go to England? Or if—I want to go out to California or…”

“I can’t leave school and go to England for a month,” Malik said (but not meanly). “I’m not a genius. I have to put effort into school. I have to read and concentrate and study at the library for hours. I can’t just—remember something I saw one time.” He let his fingers stroke down Altair’s chest, got distracted but the outline of the muscles in his belly (the way he often did). “But I won’t always be in school. You won’t always have to go alone.”

Altair leaned forward, with both his arms around Malik’s back and the length of his warm body pressed close. The touch felt _fragile_ , worried, _unsure_ but it was masquerading as something else. Altair kissed him but it was just a brief touch of mouths: there-and-gone-again. He said, “maybe I won’t go next year. I can wait.”

“No,” Malik said. His fingers were cool against the back of Altair’s neck. “That’s the wrong sort of compromise. We can survive distance, Altair. We can’t survive giving up the things that make us individuals. Don’t give up travelling because I can’t go this time—take one of your cousins. Or Maria, or Lucy. Hell, take Kadar. He’d go and he’d love everything.” 

That earned him a snort. Altair looked at him with more confidence. “We don’t have to worry about it for a while, I guess.” Then he kissed Malik again, not sweet-and-concerned but with the same lewd intention that the press of their bodies had been leaning toward all this time. Malik let him have it, let the warm-warm feeling of lust fill up his body until it was gloriously hot. Then he pushed at Altair and smiled at his whine of disappointment. “Why did you eat breakfast?” he mumbled into Malik’s neck.

“Why’d you sleep in so long?” Malik countered. He kissed the top of Altair’s head. “Come on, let’s walk your dog. Maybe we can have sex when we get back.”

“Tease,” Altair accused but he moved back to let Malik be free.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> You’re an asshole
> 
> Did Lucy finally corner you?
> 
> I can’t believe I agreed to this
> 
> It worked out for everyone.
> 
> I get time to actually talk to your boyfriend.
> 
> AND I GET LUCY

“The worst part is!” Lucy (screamed) at him somewhere between the automatic doors opening and the chocolate that they were currently looking for, “that I don’t _fucking care_ if I have a bridesmaid or not. I don’t care if the person that’s standing on that side is a man or a woman but then there’s my Mother telling me how none of our family has ever had a _real wedding_ and how photographs of this are going to be on the internet for years!” That was true. “You know what? We barely even have a fucking cake. We have one. Do I know what it is? No. Do you know who knows what it is? Claudia. Because she ordered it for us after we both failed at taste testing cake. I don’t even fucking care about buttercream. I don’t care about almond. I don’t care.” Lucy stopped moving to stretch her hands out in front of her, fingers curved inward like she could suffocate the invisible not-caring until it obeyed her (psychotic) whims. And when that failed she turned to look at him, one hand on her hip the other waving at him to come up with a response.

“Why don’t you have a bridesmaid?” Altair asked. If he could have whispered it, he would have. “What about—your friends that keep coming over and leaving messes or that one girl that used to work with you with the rainbow hair? Amy?” He was trying to remember the name of the cousins. “Or a relative?”

“Oh fuck them,” Lucy snarled. She turned away from him to stomp her way toward the candy aisle and he had to jog up to her to catch her wrist. Her response was to whirl around and hit him as hard as she could in his arm. It was not an inconsequential level of force, but the entire concentrated effort of her anger. He didn’t realize her hand and she didn’t seem apologetic with her wrist caught in his hand and her head cocked to the side as she glared up at him. “Let me go,” she said.

“We’re going to get a drink, fuck the candy.” Then he tugged her closer to him, laid his arm across her shoulders and pulled her up against his body. She didn’t fight him (the way he thought she would) but fit neatly against his side and allowed him to pull her out of the department store and to the nearest place that sold a drink. It was a bar-and-grille type place that put them up in a booth with tall seats. They were waiting on their drinks and Lucy was grinding her teeth. “What’s happening?”

Lucy rolled her eyes, “my dream wedding—that thing people keep asking me about? Is me, Desmond and you at some fucking justice of the peace’s dusty office. I don’t want _this_ bullshit. I don’t want _tradition_ and spectacle and I never did. It’s too late to back out now and once I’m there and it’s happening, I won’t care because I’ll have Desmond. I’ll have him _forever_ so I don’t actually give a fuck about the rest of it. But my fucking friends? They jump my shit about everything. If I’m late to something it’s because I’m too rich to be friends with them. If I can’t make it to something, it’s because I think I’m too glamorous to be seen with them. Oh, but if I invite them over to my place they show up ready to eat and drink and rub elbows with whatever easy meal ticket they think might be there.” She rolled her eyes and looked sideways toward the display of condiments. When she looked at him again the anger was growing across her face like a pink stain. “My cousins think I’m marrying Desmond for money. My Mom thinks I love him.” Her eyes were getting all pink. “I don’t want any of those people standing next to me. My Mom won’t do it. And if I wasn’t too fucking stressed out to think I wouldn’t want her to anyway. It’s—I mean, my Mom is great but the things she wanted for me weren’t things I wanted and she never let up. She bullied me into skirts and cheerleading and dating guys I couldn’t care less about. That’s all that matters, is keeping up appearances. It’s meeting the status quo, you know? I thought I’d gotten out of it but every time I’m there it just sinks back into my head. You can’t ever escape.” Then she rubbed her fingers against her eyes with her hands pressed tight to her face.

“Who do you want?”

“Fuck,” Lucy said into her hands. Then she dropped them and shrugged, “if I could have whatever I wanted, it’s a short list. I’d take you. Fucking Christ, Altair. I hated you three years ago. Skinny, selfish, _stupid_ little brat that you were, always nagging Desmond. Now, I think: well he’d be a good bridesmaid? He’s my family. He’s someone I want in my wedding.”

Altair smiled (but couldn’t name the feeling in his gut). “I’m the best man.”

“I know,” Lucy said. “I like my friends well enough. But not enough for this. I like my family but not enough for this. So I’m trying to find someone that fits _aesthetically_ because I can’t have someone that _means_ something.” Then she shrugged.

“Claudia?” Altair offered.

“No fucking Auditores in the wedding,” Lucy said so quickly it was an echo of an argument he hadn’t been a part of. Her immediate distaste for them had lessened in the aftermath of the battle but not even the passing of time had tempered her distrust of them. Desmond had mentioned that Lucy was angry that Mama Maria and Giovanni even got invited. 

“Maria?” Altair offered. “I mean, aesthetically, she’s pretty. She won’t try to steal your day and she has a nice smile for pictures?”

“Would she do it? I mean, would I have to hire her for this like it was a job?”

“No,” Altair said. (He was reasonably sure that Maria would come and do this without being paid.) “I can ask her if you want me to?”

“Fine,” Lucy said. “Fine. Good. Do it.” Then she leaned back into the booth and growled even as she deflated, one of her hands still playing with the napkin on the table. “How do you think Desmond and Malik are doing?”

“Hopefully better than you,” Altair said softly. He pulled his phone out to send a message to Maria. “What else is bothering you?”

“…My Mother is living with me until the wedding, my cousins are gold-diggers trying to figure out how to seduce Ezio and—oh, right, my job denied my time off request _again_. So now I have to go in and fight them about that. I don’t understand what’s so—”

“Lucy,” Altair said. And he braced himself for the rebuttal that he was sure would come. “Quit. You don’t need this job and it’s not because you’re marrying rich, it’s because it makes you miserable. You’re too smart and you work too hard to be stuck at that job. Go back to school,” Altair said. “Please go back to school. If you can’t live your life without a job, then get a part time job that you don’t hate.”

While he hadn’t meant to make Lucy cry, the tears on her face made him feel like a heel. Her whole face seemed to be twisting up into an acute sort of pain that made his own chest hurt. She licked her lips and sniffled. “I know,” she said. “But it’s giving up, you know? It’s the end of that. The end of— I can’t even explain it. If I really do it, if I quit, if I marry Desmond then everything up to this point is over. It’s just so fucking _big_ , you know?” He didn’t know, but his life had been a series of semi-permanent solutions interrupted frequently by catastrophe. “I’m not scared it won’t work. I just don’t know how to be—okay with living a life I haven’t earned.”

“Start with being selfish for a few weeks. Quit your job in the middle of the biggest rush you’ve ever seen. Walk out, find Desmond, have a victory fuck and then—I don’t know, finish planning your wedding. Get married, have your honeymoon, take the summer off to decorate your stupid house and figure out where you want to go to school. Just, don’t make yourself miserable when you don’t have to be. Nobody _chooses_ to be miserable.”

“But people have to be. I know you don’t get that, not in the same way, but if I give up this. If I do what you told me to? What does it say about everyone else? The people who don’t have a choice? The person I’d be if Desmond had walked into any other coffee shop?” Lucy shrugged and looked toward the server arriving with the drinks. She thanked him when he set her drink down and then waited until he’d gone. “How do you just—not care about how hard everything is for everyone?”

Altair did not have an answer to that question. There wasn’t an answer to that question. His scope of sympathy (empathy too) was limited for a variety of reasons. While he didn’t wish any sort of suffering on the majority of people he knew, he couldn’t explain how he justified his life (and lifestyle) in any way. He couldn’t justify how he’d come to win the lottery (in the monetary sense) and other people were struggling to find a place to sleep. “Do you?” Altair asked instead. “Working at the coffee shop, living with your friends in that tiny apartment, in the years before Desmond? Did you sit around and think about how many people there were that had it worse than you? You didn’t fall in love with Desmond because he has money. You didn’t stay with him to improve your own life—not in that way. You love him. Genuinely. You have the opportunity and the ability so take it.”

Lucy didn’t look convinced but she raised her glass to him anyway. “I’m still not quitting in the middle of a rush.” But a smile crossed her face at the thought. “But it would be so satisfying.”

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> When are we supposed to go to the old house?
> 
> Uh, after the fifteenth. Altair wants to introduce Malik to Mrs. Finch first
> 
> Is Edward coming?
> 
> Yes, but he’s taking the dog house because he doesn’t trust us around his kids
> 
> I wouldn’t either.
> 
> I’m bringing Leonardo.
> 
> I know
> 
> He’s only safe on the day of the wedding, during the hours of the wedding
> 
> so tell him no bear-baiting this time
> 
> I will tell him, but he is a free spirit, he does what he wants.

Desmond wasn’t sure what to say to Malik. Everything that he’d intended to say to him (be careful with Altair) had already been said and that left them with an awkward lull of conversational topics when abandoned. They managed small talk about the different cuts of suits; Desmond knew practically nothing but Malik seemed to have a reasonable knowledge of the subject. Once they finished with the tailor, they meandered about what to do and only by the virtue of it being lunch did they end up getting something to eat.

Malik sat across the table from him, alternating between looking at the menu and his phone, frowning at the first and rolling his eyes at the second. 

“So, did your friend start watching Ezio’s show because of you, or did he find it on his own?” Desmond picked up his glass just to have something to do and took a sip of the water while Malik thought about it. He hadn’t noticed (or had any reason to notice or care) how dark Malik’s eyes were until the man was looking back at him with a thoughtful squint like he was working out the answer he couldn’t quite remember. The differences between Malik’s and Altair’s faces (and skin tone, and eyes) were interesting if only because their parents (in Altair’s half of his parents) had come from approximately the same place. Then, again, Altair must have taken after Grandfather’s looks because there was absolutely no other way he could look as much like Desmond as he did. 

“He found it,” Malik said finally. “I was pretty careful never to talk about Altair or his family. Leonardo saw the advertisements for Ezio’s show and wanted to have sex with him so we had to watch the stupid show every week.” Then he shrugged. Their brief attempt at a conversation was interrupted by the waiter. 

“How are you doing?” he asked and after being assured they were fine, nodded and promised their food would be finished soon before moving on to the next table. 

Once he was out of earshot, Malik said, “I have an awkward series of questions.” 

“More awkward than us staring at one another?” Desmond asked. He smiled and offered him a polite semi-smile in response. “I’ll try my best to answer them. As long as they’re something I can answer.”

“Is your uncle Giovanni actually homophobic?”

That wasn’t any of the questions that Desmond was expecting. “It would not surprise me if he were. I don’t know Giovanni very well, however, so I couldn’t say. Why do you ask?” 

“Apparently, Federico told Leonardo that he was.”

Well. “If Federico said that, it’s true.”

Malik nodded. There was no obvious anger on his face but a weary sort of disappointment that made him look older than he was. (Desmond couldn’t remember off the top of his head how old Malik actually was. Altair had told him. Nineteen or twenty. Either way far too young to look so weary.) “Does Altair know?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Desmond said. “Things work—differently in the family. Mama Maria handles all the family politics. Even if Giovanni were homophobic, it’s not something that we would know necessarily. It makes sense—his sons, shit. They were terrible when they were younger. I mean, constant derogatory, just awful things.”

“I remember you mentioned it to me in an e-mail.” Malik picked at the edge of the napkin under his drink. “Is it actually a past tense thing? I mean with the cousins, not with Giovanni.”

“Well, Ezio is having sex with a man so I assume that he’s over it.” 

Malik was so very unimpressed. “Altair had sex with me. He wasn’t over it.” That should have counted as a special case. People like Altair had a superhuman ability to ignore the obvious. “I’m only asking because I don’t have a clear idea what the extended family is about. If I’m supposed to smile and ignore ignorance, I’d like to have some idea what I’m ignoring.”

“Nothing,” Desmond said. He might have said more but the waiter was back with their food. They paused the conversation briefly so they could rearrange the table to make space for their food, and assure the man that everything looked good. He distracted himself with pouring ketchup while Malik fixed his own plate. Then said, “they are poison, Malik. Don’t ignore anything they say to you. Fight them. Let him fight them. I don’t care where or when it happens.”

“Ok,” Malik said. There was no telling from the tone if it was a good ok or a bad one and Desmond simply didn’t know him well enough to figure it out. “How are the wedding preparations going?”

“I—don’t know. I get conflicting reports.” Claudia assured him things were well and Lucy prophesized catastrophe. “Hopefully well.”

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> What if I offered you money?
> 
> I can’t be bought so easily, Ms. Auditore.
> 
> There has to be something that I can offer you.
> 
> No, there isn’t. The wedding is in 15 days you can wait
> 
> If you will not tell me which dress she chose through bribery, I could try coercion.
> 
> Or threats.
> 
> Announcing your plans is kind of ballsy
> 
> But I still won’t tell
> 
> Is there any manner of manipulation that will work?
> 
> Well I don’t have any friends right now
> 
> You could always appeal to that
> 
> Why don’t you have friends?
> 
> Before it was because the jocks hated me. Then it was because I started a protest at school about how unfair the dress code is against girls. Then because my brother’s dating this rich asshole who probably ruined the star quarteback’s life.
> 
> But now I think they’re afraid of me.
> 
> You are rather intimidatingly large.
> 
> No. Not me as a person. Me as connected to Altair
> 
> Altair must have scared them.
> 
> That is my guess.
> 
> I have not heard much about you but I am reasonable certain that if they earned Altair’s anger and scorn, they deserved it.
> 
> My brother thinks so too
> 
> I’m just waiting for you to ask me about the dress
> 
> It’s much too early to ask. I have to earn your friendship.
> 
> So, what are you plans for graduation?

Kadar hadn’t intended to spend his lunch periods swapping messages with Claudia Auditore. Of course he also hadn’t expected that the first week back from suspension that Clyde would have grabbed the guy that shouted ‘gay’ at his back and throw him into a wall either. That had been Tuesday when he got back from New York (again). The shock of it had followed him a day-and-night. 

But it made sense, of course, that Altair would have done something about the situation. It made sense that whatever he’d done had left enough of a lasting impression to make Clyde’s entire face go white with fear in those first seconds Kadar looked over at him. 

It was just simpler to pack a sandwich from his house and hide in one of the empty back hallways during lunch. There was no point in antagonizing a situation that he’d just as much rather ignore. So he stayed out of the way, chewing on bread and filling while he sent messages back and forth with Claudia about how he wasn’t ever going to tell what dress Lucy picked out.

And then about how he didn’t have any idea what he wanted to do after graduation. Her suggestion wasn’t entirely helpful (come be my personal assistant, she said, I have a need for a large man with a manipulative tongue) but her follow up advice had been somewhat useful. The fact that she was out there in California benefiting from the best education money could buy and still had no idea what she wanted to do with herself was a relief.

More than anything, Claudia was _fun_. 

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> Trying to get laid, what do you need?
> 
> How is it easier to text than talk?
> 
> Is your mouth full?
> 
> Well it would have been if you hadn’t interrupted.
> 
> I will be arriving on the 6th, should I find a hotel room until the 14th or can I stay with you?
> 
> I’ll let you know

The problem wasn’t that Maria called him but that when she called he was three-fourths the way into divesting Malik of his clothes. The shrill ringing of his (personal) phone had been enough of an interruption but her (specifically chosen) text alert and changed the moment from a purposeful sort of moment when the last barrier between him and sex was Malik’s (obnoxiously and yet oddly attractive) briefs. He pressed his face against Malik’s chest to listen to his stupid laugh and cursed the woman who was interrupting his life. 

“Oh come on,” Malik said. He stretched across the bed to grab Altair’s discarded pants and extracted the phone from the pocket with a great deal of deftness for a man with an erection that had been breathlessly encouraging sex just a few moments before. Now he was lying there with pink marks on his chest and a lazy spread of his thighs while he offered Altair his own phone.

“You want to answer her so bad, you can do the typing,” Altair retorted to the expectation. He unlocked his phone and gave it back to Malik so he could ease his briefs off (as he had been meaning to do this whole time). They exchanged questions and answers while Altair worked his way from Malik’s collarbone to his belly button, leaving damp little wet prints along his route. 

“Why do you have to let her know?” Malik asked (punched-in-the-gut breathless). He abandoned the phone to the rumpled blankets and ran his fingers through Altair’s hair to encourage him to stop teasing (not something he was terribly interested in doing). 

“I thought I’d ask you first,” Altair answered. He went around Malik’s dick, pushed both his hands against the underside of his thighs so his knees were up against his chest. The only response that got him was a grunting objection. “But I also wanted to try out rimming so—would you rather talk about Maria staying in the apartment or do this?”

“This,” Malik said decisively, “but let me turn over. It’s more comfortable.”

After, Malik was sated and floppy (the way he often got after good sex) and he said, “I don’t care if Maria stays. I mean—is she a bad roommate? Is she annoying?”

“No,” Altair said. “I just didn’t know how you felt. I’ll tell her. Can we take a nap?”

“It’s ten in the morning. I don’t have a problem with Maria. She’s not the same as—Leonardo was for you. She wasn’t a threat; so you don’t have to worry about me in regards to her.”

“Oh,” Altair said, “good. But if we take a nap, we can wake up and have sex again. I’m tired. It’s a good plan.” Altair was already rolling onto his side (because he was tired) and Malik grumbled a half-realized objection before he scooted a short distance to the side to get his blanket over himself. 

\--

Shirley_Templar: RT: “booshanti89, now that your cousin is openly gay has it changed your or anyone in your family’s relationship with him?” @son-of-no-one, is not gay he’s bisexual. (14m ago)

Shirley_Templar: Other than the changes that happen naturally whenever someone starts dating someone. He is now and will always be my closest family. (12m ago)

Lucy was doing sit ups in the living room when he got home. It was only an event worth making note of because Lucy’s exercising usually took place when he wasn’t around and in places he was least likely to catch her because, as she put it, she was least attractive grunting and sweating. (He’d protested that notion thoroughly.)

“I thought you worked today,” Desmond said. He closed the door behind him and stood awkwardly by it carrying his lunch sack full of poor choices he’d gotten to-go from the burger place that had the best fries and pickles. The rings he’d gone to pick up were in his pocket (safely tucked away from possible theft). 

Lucy finished her set and sat up with her legs crossed in front of her. She was wearing her black work-pants (sturdy and washable) and her undershirt. Her hair was still pulled back up into her professionally appropriate messy bun. With her wrists clenched around her slim ankles she looked very much like she was going to break apart at all the joints. “I did.” Her head up-downed in a quick, jerky nod before she continued on, “but then I took this stupid advice that your stupid cousin gave me. It was the _worst_ advice that I’ve ever been given. But my boss was there, and it was the one that told me I couldn’t have the time off and I was being selfish for asking for two weeks just to get married. Can you imagine that? He came over to me and he said something about how I needed to be more efficient about my job. _I_ need to be more efficient? You are a fucking toddler in a tie that has been working at that stupid store for five days and I’ve been there for four years!” 

“So you quit?”

“I took my apron off, threw it at his head, said ‘you do it’ and walked out. The line was all the way to the door, there were so many people. I just quit.”

Desmond reached into his inside coat pocket and pulled the rings out. He went over and sat on the floor next to her with his back against the couch and held them out for her to look at. “I think you’ve needed to quit for a long time now.”

Lucy opened the little box that had their rings inside and smiled at them. There were angry tears in her eyes to match the rage flush of her cheeks. When she looked up, the smile that rest on her face was so fragile and scared that it was out of place on her. “I think I want to go back to school. I mean, I had all these plans and I just quit.” Then she ran her thumb over his ring and snapped the lid shut. “So, we need to talk about if that’s something that we can do? Something we can afford, you know?”

He nodded because telling her she was being silly about money wouldn’t have helped her. Rather than launch into the conversation immediately, he said, “I’m sure we can make it work.” Then he opened his lunch bag and pulled out his cheeseburger, “want half?”

“Yes,” she said. “Did you already eat all the fries?”

“Most of them,” he corrected. He ripped the sandwich in half and gave it to her. “So, does your Mom know you’re back?”

“No,” Lucy said. “She’s still out with Claudia picking out a dress for the wedding. I got a text a little bit ago alluding to how much easier it would be to choose a good dress if Claudia knew what mine looked like.” Lucy grinned for real then. “I don’t even care if she knows, but Kadar asked me not to tell her.” She moved over to sit next to him and leaned against his side. “We are going to survive this wedding, right?”

He took a bite of the hamburger (because he was starving) and nodded his head. She didn’t look convinced with her lips pursed together and her eyebrows raised but after a pause she sighed and took a bite out of her half. “Yeah,” he said around a mouthful of food, “it’ll be great.”

“Ha,” Lucy said. “Fifty bucks says one of the shithead Auditores starts a fight during the reception.”

“If they make it that long. I’m not taking a bet I’m going to lose.” Then he finished chewing (and swallowed) and said, “fifty bucks that says one of the Auditore parents says something offensive to Malik.” He grinned at Lucy’s outrage.

“I’ll kick their asses,” she said. “No that’s good. I hope they do. I have been dying for a reason to punch that woman in the face.” Then she nodded her head to emphasize the point. “I will too.” Desmond would have pointed out that there would be a line to get to punching them but Lucy seemed far too pleased to bother using logic. She finished chewing to say, “fifty says Altair and Leonardo fight.”

Desmond laughed. “Not taking a stupid bet. Let’s just hope it doesn’t end in stitches again.” 

Lucy laughed. “This is going to be a sideshow,” then she sighed. “So the other part of his advice was victory sex.” She nodded at him slow-and-meaningful. “You game?”

Desmond nodded. “Can I finish eating this first?” But she was already getting to her feet and dragging him after her.

\--

horse: as everyone is on the internet answering questions about @sass-badger, allow me to answer the one posed to me by @franticfrances, namely “did I once date @sass-badger” (10m ago)

horse: No, @franticfrances, we did not date. We have been friends for several years now but we were never romantic. (10m ago)

son-of-no-one: true, there is nothing romantic about fuck buddies (6m ago)

“I’m fine,” Kadar said again. He was wincing at his laptop, halfway-through checking all the usual websites before he could move on with doing the research he needed for the insane history teacher’s final paper. (The one that seemed to be more likely to just be a torture implement than anything necessary to make a grade.) He said, “have you checked your feed in the last ten minutes?”

“What?” Malik asked. “No. I’ve been on the phone, are you on the computer?” The sigh was terribly loud and disapproving through his phone but Malik would have to go find his own computer now. The disadvantage of not knowing something was too much for him to overlook. “What is it?”

“I’m torn because I want to know what you’re going to do but at the same time I don’t want to be a witness to a crime.” Kadar leaned back into the dining room chair and waited for Malik to finish scrolling through things to find the exact message he needed to find. 

“What?” was Malik’s demand. The word itself as sharp as a slap. “What?” he repeated. 

“I felt it was fairly restrained,” Kadar said softly. “Hey, how do you think it’ll go the first time they see one another and you’re there too? I’m torn between Leonardo being overly friendly and Altair like ripping your clothes off and fucking you in public.”

“What?” Malik said again. “No.” But a half-breath of thought left him saying, “well, you’re probably not wrong. It’ll probably be both. Or Leonardo will be too happy with Ezio to care. I just need them to get the fuck over it. Why would he even say that? What does he gain by posting that?”

“Well he gets to jab Leonardo in the only tender spot he has,” Kadar said. “Namely, that you chose Altair and Leonardo’s attempts to love you were ultimately fruitless. Are you going to hurt him? I would ask if you were going to take away sex but that would hurt you more.”

“I’m hanging up on you.”

“But tell me what you’re going to do,” Kadar said. He closed all the irrelevant windows so he was stuck back on the search engine results for the roaring twenties (still looking for a specific topic worth writing about). 

“I’m going to call him names and explain why that comment was entirely unnecessary.” Well that conversation would certainly go well. Malik didn’t even say good bye (as he usually did) but hang up on him.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I would have assumed the caveman didn’t want the world to know.
> 
> I think you’re assigning too much logic to jealousy
> 
> It’s one in the morning on the east coast.
> 
> I’m aware
> 
> Why aren’t you sleeping?
> 
> You’re not stupid.
> 
> Yes, but I am also aware of your varied unspoken languages. If you wanted to talk about it, you would have brought it up. 
> 
> But I would talk about it if you wanted to.
> 
> What good would come out of making an anniversary out of a tragedy?
> 
> Why commemorate such an ugly, awful event?
> 
> I lost my arm a year ago today; why dwell on it?
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> Ezio wanted to come see me this weekend and I told him I didn’t want him around. I did nothing. I have been sitting in my room rubbing red paint on canvases, fighting my memory—reliving every moment and ever decision that brought us to this day.
> 
> Do you think Sofia’s okay?
> 
> I think I’ll drive down and have lunch with her.
> 
> Give her a hug from me
> 
> So just one arm then?
> 
> I never loved you because your humor is awful
> 
> Ha! The soulless do not understand humor. 
> 
> But seriously. Let the man whose life has been dominated by tragedy be a comfort.
> 
> I don’t want comfort. I want normalcy
> 
> That must be why you’re sleeping.
> 
> Haha.

Malik must have fallen asleep in the middle of the conversation because he woke up the next day to his phone (dead pressed up against his chest. Altair was absent from his side of the bed. The loss of him was usually an aggravation of an old insult but the coolness of his side of the bed was a welcome reprieve from the fear of his _worry_. Whatever hope he’d been scraping together the night before about how Altair might not even bother to remember the date of the accident (from a year ago) seemed like a series of lies in the sunny light of day.

Altair was a man who had the dates of his family’s deaths tattooed on his wrist. He had a black bar on his arm marking the approximate location of Malik’s amputation and all _that_ before they had even met properly. 

Rather than roll out of bed (as he usually did) he lingered a minute, gathering up the energy to face the day.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Has your brother talked to you today?
> 
> No.
> 
> Why? What did he do about your stupid text?
> 
> Told me I was immature and I shouldn’t mock people’s loss
> 
> I agreed not to taunt Leonardo on the internet
> 
> Then we had sex so that’s resolved.
> 
> But the accident was a year ago today.
> 
> Oh shit. I just remembered.
> 
> Why do you remember? You weren’t even there.
> 
> I have a good memory.
> 
> Do you think he remembers?
> 
> I don’t know. It’ll be obvious if he does. 
> 
> Just make sure he eats. Call me if he doesn’t.
> 
> What? Why?
> 
> Just do it. Otherwise proceed as normal.

Malik was sitting at the table (not eating cereal), wearing nothing but a clingy white undershirt and his pajama pants, looking unimpressed—almost bored—about the newspaper that he was skimming through. Other than the terrible bedhead and the confused frown that he’d offered when he emerged from the room to find Altair already eating breakfast (a thing that happened rarely ever since he discovered the rule regarding sex before food), there had been absolutely no indication that Malik cared about anything.

Much less that it had occurred to him that this same day last year was the day he had his arm amputated. 

“Don’t we have something we have to do today?” Malik asked. He glanced up from the paper toward the seat where Altair had been sitting and then looked over at him (hiding by the sink) with a confused frown and his tongue caught in the corner of his mouth the way it got when Malik was thinking too hard. “Why are you over there?”

“I was checking my phone,” which was technically true. He was checking his phone because he was sending messages to Kadar because his head was an infinite loop of anxiety waiting for the moment the pretense of nothing dropped. “Desmond was coming by later to brush up on dancing. Other than that—I don’t think we have anything. Did you want to do something?”

Malik just shook his head. He picked up his bowl (still full of milk he never drank and cereal that had congealed into mush) and carried it over to rinse it out in the sink. Then he leaned against the counter and squinted at him. “Are you angry about yesterday?” 

“No,” was far too quick an answer to be believable. And from the way Malik’s eyebrows went up far too quickly he obviously felt the same. “No,” he said again quieter. “I’m not angry about yesterday. I added unnecessary commentary to an apparently innocent statement. I understand why it upset you. I will try to keep all my unnecessary comments off the internet.”

“So are you upset because you’ve been reminded I slept with Leonardo?”

Yes. Constantly. Altair sighed. “I don’t think it matters that you had sex with him.” It matters that he used that knowledge and all the other things he knew about Malik against Altair and that Malik had fed him that ammunition willingly or not. “I’m not upset about it.”

“Fine,” Malik said. He stepped away from the counter. “I’m going to go take a shower.” Which was a habit, Altair had been told, that had developed in the wake of Altair’s consistent desire for morning sex. It wasn’t even that he loved morning sex but that there was a time limit to sex in the morning and it was easiest to have sex and then eat. (Rather than having to wait any number of hours until sex was a possibility again.) 

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Hey
> 
> Hi. 
> 
> So, Leonardo is coming to see me and you are texting me first.
> 
> Normally this would make me feel as if the world were coming to an end but I just checked the calendar.
> 
> I haven’t gotten any texts yet. I have this image of my Mother and Brother anxious staring at their phone screens
> 
> waiting to receive word I’ve fallen apart
> 
> Be fair. The accident was a traumatic event for everyone.
> 
> It was. I’d rather not be part of remembering it
> 
> Is Leonardo okay?
> 
> I don’t know.
> 
> Take care of him for me?
> 
> Of course.

Altair was not playing with London. It was only worthwhile of note because the dog was doing her very best to get his attention and maintain his affection. Every time he slacked off from petting her, she would bite at his fingers and Altair would start again. There was nothing to blame for his failing attention, no TV or phone or other distractions. After a long (long, _long_ ) ten minutes of the same, Altair looked over at him, “we should take London for a walk. Do you want to go get lunch or something?”

“We just had breakfast,” Malik said, but really, “I mean, I did. If you want to go get something, you can. I’m not hungry.” But also, “London can stay with me.”

Altair frowned at that. Then he sat up and reached for his phone sitting on the table in front of him. His hand closed around it in time with him getting to his feet, one hand clutching London to his chest while she protested with flailing little puppy paws. “I think Desmond was supposed to show up this morning. I promised to finish teaching him how to dance.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Did he eat?
> 
> Yeah, cereal.
> 
> Maybe he is fine.
> 
> Good.

“No!” Desmond shouted across the living room. “You are not telling the story correctly!” His face was pink from laughing while Lucy clung to him, pulling him along in the correct sequence of dance steps. The man had trouble leading but he could follow as long as someone else tugged him into step behind them. “You make it sound like it was no big deal. Those assholes _refused_ to teach me how to lead because they didn’t want to be _women_.” 

Altair rolled his eyes. His hands were flopped uselessly across his thighs while he slouched so deeply into the couch that his ass was only just barely still on the edge of it. His shirt was ruffled up on his chest where the buttons lifted up in little peaks and fell in little valleys. “Right, so Ezio and Federico are assholes and they wouldn’t teach Desmond how to dance.” He rolled his head to look up at Malik who wasn’t laughing at the story but crinkled-up-in-disapproval. 

“Because if they weren’t the lead and the _man_ they’d be gay? That’s stupid.” Malik said. He scoffed at the memory. The sheer volume of implied hatred in the words was hollow-and-discordant against the humor of the memory. (Then again, a great deal of Altair’s more favored memories of the Auditore brothers were still problematic.) 

“Like I said,” Desmond said, “they’re assholes.” 

Lucy stepped out of the dance with a breathy kind of laugh and her whole face bright with exertion. She wiped her mouth with her palm and shrugged. “I don’t think they’re that bad anymore.”

Desmond barked a laugh. Then he shrugged, “I don’t think Federico’s so bad.”

But Altair was watching Malik’s face while the frown that stuck between his eyebrows slowly loosened into something friendlier. His brief smile when Desmond looked over at him was conciliatory but not genuine. He shrugged the whole affair away and looked over at Altair, “so how did you learn?”

“My Grandmother. She thought it was important that I understood what it was like to have to dance the woman’s part? So I had to learn all the dances backward first and then she let me learn how to lead and dance the man’s part, I guess. Do you know how to dance?” It hadn’t occurred to him because it seemed like the sort of thing that Malik would have brought up by now if it were deficient. 

“Not really,” Malik answered. “I have a vague idea of the basics but I haven’t had a reason to practice it.” There seemed to be something else he wanted to say but rather than saying it, he just shrugged it away.

Lucy said, “you should get Altair to show you. He really is actually pretty good.”

“Maybe later. I want to finish this post.” Then he looked down at his computer again.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> How’s it going?
> 
> Well I feel like he’s watching me but he hasn’t said anything
> 
> Must be awkward to be him. 
> 
> Aware and unable to figure out how to ask if you’re alright.
> 
> You could give him a break this one time.
> 
> I’d rather he just stop staring at me

Lucy was sitting at his right because the two idiots were on the opposite side of the booth arguing about what they were going to do at the bachelor party. Altair was wheezing in laughter about ‘dick shaped confetti’ and Desmond was threatening him about letting Ezio get his way. 

But Lucy was sitting at his side, rolling her eyes about them, looking over at him like commiserating over what they were stuck with. The smile fell out of place when she motioned at the food he’d ordered (if only to keep the morons from insisting for twenty minutes) with her hand, “is it not good? We can send it back to the kitchen if there’s something wrong with it.”

“No it’s fine. I’m just not hungry.” 

Lucy put her hand on his forehead. “Are you sick? You don’t look sick.” Then she felt the side of his neck and finding that it was of a reasonable temperature moved her hands away. “Well, you can always get a to-go box so you’ll have it later if you feel better.” But her stare lingered on him for a half-breath longer than was comfortable. She covered it up by throwing herself into the conversation about the difference between porn and strippers. “Oh come on, Desmond. You have to give the other guys something to do.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> He didn’t eat lunch
> 
> Fuck.

The phone rang six times, two longer than it had ever been allowed to ring when Malik was there to answer it. The guilt of the half-hearted denial was loud in Malik’s quiet voice when he did answer it. His greeting was just a little noise saying, “hello Kadar,” almost exhausted by the effort of answering the phone at all.

“Go eat,” Kadar said. “Don’t give me any shit, go eat _now_ or I call Mom and tell her.”

“Fine,” Malik said. “Do it.”

Which was far worse than anything that Kadar anticipated. “Please,” he said. 

Malik just sighed. “I’m not hungry. Since you’re keeping tabs on me, maybe tell Altair he doesn’t have to follow me around looking worried.” That was not on the list of things Kadar was going to be doing. “It’s getting old. And I’m fine, if you were interested in knowing.”

“You’re a liar,” Kadar retorted. “Nobody wanted this to be a big deal.”

“Then don’t make it one.”

“Then eat,” Kadar said. And he knew even before he heard Malik’s sigh that it was a stupid try. He wasn’t even surprised when Malik said ‘good bye Kadar’ and hung up on him. The surprise was the anger being dismissed left him with, the worry that had been slow building since he got the first texts from Altair that morning was a full starburst of anxiety. None of his immediate ideas seemed like they would be effective against this level of aggressive moodiness. Mother would not lecture Malik (today) and it was just as well to leave it be as long as he ate the next day. 

Mother might have said ‘everyone deserves a day to deal with painful memories’ but then again she might have made the trip from their home to Malik’s current location just to slap him and watch him eat. (There was no telling with her.)

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Well the answer is that he’s not okay. I brought him home and have tucked him into my couch.
> 
> We are watching ‘chick flicks’ and arguing about the chemistry of the couple.
> 
> Is it helping?
> 
> Well it’s distracting. I’m going to keep him here tonight. Maybe we’ll get drunk.
> 
> I think I got ratted out
> 
> Altair looks mad
> 
> Ratted out about what?
> 
> Text me after you talk to him, let me know you’re okay?

Malik let his phone clatter onto the table in front of the couch and leaned back into it. Altair was _angry_ in a way that he had yet to be in Malik’s presence. There was no violence in it, but a complete defeat and the denied fury that came with it. He didn’t stomp or yell or scream or ball his hands up into fists but cross the room. 

He sat on the table in front of Malik with _pained_ civility. 

“He told you,” Malik said. It was the only conclusion that he had.

“Yes,” Altair said. But also, “ _Leonardo_ told me that you needed me. _Kadar_ told me that you were upset but he didn’t tell me how he knew—there’s a funny thing he keeps asking if you are eating.” Altair shrugged. “You know when I met you, the first time, you were so _thin_.”

Malik shrugged. He sat forward because there was a sigh of disinterest caught in his chest. All his attempts to find some sense of normalcy in the day were crumbling out from under him. The acute pain of _loneliness_ was so sharp that it felt like it was ripping through the soft tissue between his ribs. Every part of him wanted to be _somewhere else_ , wrapped up in the warmth of familiar friendship. It had _nothing_ to do with Altair and everything to do with the ragged half-memory he had of climbing into a car with his best friends. It was the reoccurring slide-show of Leonardo’s bruised forehead, Sofia’s shuffling guilt and the out-of-order realizations of those days after he’d woken up with only one arm. 

He wanted to be _there_ with the people that _knew_ because his whole body craved the unselfish comfort of Sofia’s hands stroking his hair and Leonardo’s wandering-idiot-thoughts, and his busy fingers sketching things into the bare skin of his arms. 

“I don’t do that anymore,” Malik said plainly. “I’m not hungry. I’m allowed that today. I don’t care what my brother said to you.”

Altair looked _hurt_. “Why didn’t you just tell me? Why didn’t you—I could have done _something_. I could have helped.”

“You could not,” Malik said. “You can’t. It’s not even that you wouldn’t try—it’s not even that—but you can’t make me feel better today. You can’t give me what I want—you wouldn’t even want to.” And there was a decidedly _pleasing_ satisfaction in the hurt in Altair’s face.

“Why not?”

“Because I want Leonardo,” Malik said.

Oh-and-the hurt and the anger mixed up in bright-pink and white-white spots on Altair’s cheeks. He bit his lips as his hands pressed together and his body straightened up. There was more space between them now than there had ever been. Some part of Malik (capable of caring) thought it might have been mean-spirited to represent his wants so bluntly. Altair was looking sideways, not at him, trying to figure out a response that wasn’t an attack (or maybe he was working out an attack). 

“I don’t want this,” Malik added. He motioned around the whole room, tried to wrap up the whole day and stood up because the agitation of being watched-and-worried sent vibrating unease through every part of him. “Why didn’t you just _ask_?”

Altair looked _up_ at him. The glance every bit of bitter hate that he’d used against men with cameras in the past. His mouth was a peaceful frown. When he opened his mouth, it was just a slight part of lips and then closed again as he stood up. “I would have,” he said. “If you asked, if you _needed_ it, or even if you wanted to spend today with _him_ , I would have bought you a fucking ticket. I would have brought him _here_.” He shook his head as he turned away, body all tight and hands itching with surrender.

“Bullshit,” Malik said to his back. And that made Altair pause. “You would have thought it was an insult. You would have let me go—maybe you’d buy the ticket but I’d have to deal with your stupid face when I got back. I’d have to put up with your… _jealousy_ for weeks.”

Then Altair turned around to look at him, arms crossed over his chest, face blank-stone. 

“I don’t even know what the fuck you’re so worried about,” Malik said. Every word was _pure fire_ , the out-pouring of the anger that followed him out of the anesthesia coma of last year. “Is it because he fucked me? Is that why you hate him? Do you want to know how you compare? Is it because he got to know me all the years you spent slinging your stupid petty bullshit at me? Is it because he loved me because I don’t _understand_ what the hell you have to feel so threatened by!”

“You love him,” Altair said. (Just like a slap in the face.)

Malik laughed at him, loud-and-cruel. “Because he’s my _friend_.”

“Oh fuck you,” Altair snapped back. “You fucked him, you love him. You don’t even have to be a fucking genius to see the sum of those things. I don’t like him because he has parts of you that I never will—because you love him, because you’ll always protect him—because—”

And when Malik laughed that time, it was _so furious_ that someone might have mistaken it for screaming. “I _protect_ him?” he shouted. “You stupid _son of a bitch_. You think it’s _him_ that I protect? Do you know what you did to him?”

“Of course I d—”

“No you don’t! You _broke his face_ and you _planned it_. You got it into your head to lay your stupid Auditore-justice on _my friend_ and you did it even though I asked you not to! You did it because you didn’t get what you want exactly when you wanted it and you thought he had some part of me that you couldn’t get!” His voice was shaking-shaking-shaking all to pieces. “But you’re so stupid! You’re too caught up in imagining he’s got something that you don’t, you haven’t considered the fact that I didn’t _protect him_ from you! I didn’t even try! I forgave you for what you did to him—why? Why would I do that? Why would I forgive you for your petty cruelty? Why would I side against him if he had something better than you do?”

“Malik,” Altair said like he was _sorry_ about what he’d unleashed.

“No you shut up!” Malik snapped. “I convinced myself that you two idiots were even, because you both went there to throw your pride at one another. But you _hurt him_. You _wouldn’t have stopped_ ,” Malik’s whole head felt cotton-filled and _hot_ , “why? Because when he asked me to forgive him, he already knew that I blamed him for it. That I wanted you more than I wanted to keep him as a friend. He _knows_ I don’t love him. He knows that you won, that you’ve always had more of me than he has. You’re the idiot that can’t figure it out.”

Altair looked (sad) indecisive about what to say but he was smart enough to keep his hands to himself. “I’m so—”

“Shut up,” Malik said. He couldn’t think of anything to add that wasn’t pure _venom_ so he just walked away.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I can’t figure out if you set me up
> 
> Or if I fucked up
> 
> For a genius you have a limited imagination.
> 
> I did both.
> 
> You’re an asshole
> 
> If it hadn’t been you that he fought with, it would have been his brother. We can agree the kid’s not strong enough to handle it now.
> 
> Still an asshole
> 
> Now, go take care of him.

Malik was sitting on the edge of the bed, grinding his teeth while he stared down at the floor between his feet. Altair padded over toward him, paused just beyond touching range and then dropped down on his knees and looked up at Malik’s angry stare. All around his eyes was irritated-and-red. 

“I’m sorry,” Altair said. “Whatever you need me to do, whatever will help—I’ll do it.” 

Malik’s smile was all pain. He swallowed and reached forward with his hand to first his fingers into Altair’s shirt and pulled him up against him. They fell back on the bed in a confusion of limbs. He wasn’t sure the purpose until Malik laid against his chest and Altair’s arms were looped around him. “This _isn’t_ an anniversary I want,” he said.

“We’ll forget it next year,” Altair said softly. He rubbed his hands up-down Malik’s back, inching farther and farther up until one of his hands was in his hair and the other was gripping his upper arm. He wasn’t certain if it was or it was Malik that moved but they were close enough to brush noses. “But you should probably call your brother. He seemed worried.”

“I don’t care,” Malik said. He nodded. He kissed Altair with a confusion of apologetic anger, caught up in the maelstrom of half-realized intentions. When he shifted his body over him, he said, “comfort sex, I need you to take over.” And he rolled onto his back as Altair climbed over him. 

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Thanks for saving my life
> 
> My pleasure.
> 
> Are you drunk?
> 
> A little.
> 
> No nightmares tonight
> 
> No promises. Sleep tonight.
> 
> I’ll try

It was one thirty in the morning, Malik was lying on the couch because he couldn’t sleep and the pretense of lying in bed waiting for the impossible was far too much to cope with. London was sleeping on his chest while he stared at the ceiling, rearranging the discordant feelings in his head. Exhaustion left him feeling like the world was going to crash in all around them.

“Hey,” Altair said. He was yawning all in the word, coming over to look down at him from behind the couch. “I thought you were going to sleep?”

“Maybe in a little while,” Malik said. “Why are you awake?”

“Bed’s too empty.” He yawned again (clearly lying) and came around to sit at the end of the couch where Malik’s feet were. He rested one of his hands on Malik’s ankle when he put his feet in Altair’s lap. “You could watch TV or something. It’s distracting.”

“I’m fine,” Malik assured him. (It didn’t feel as much like a lie as it did earlier.) “I do stop eating when I’m upset. I called it fasting when I was younger. I thought if I didn’t eat that I would prove I was worth saving, I thought I wouldn’t be gay. Or, I don’t know, I wouldn’t have the energy to lust after men. It was stupid. So, when I’m upset I don’t eat. But don’t let my brother scare you. It’s not so terrible anymore.”

“I don’t want to be jealous of Leonardo. I know it’s childish. I know he’s important to you. I want to be okay but it’s not going to happen overnight. He might not be a threat but it doesn’t mean he’s not—still I don’t know.” Altair shrugged. He looked like he wanted to have a better explanation for the whole thing but pulled his phone out of his pocket instead. “Want to see something good?”

“Sure,” Malik said. When Altair handed him the phone he was expecting pictures of cats (or kittens) but not a long line of tweets from his cousin. “This is good?” he asked even before he started reading.

FedericotheFirst: At the risk of involving myself in a spectacle I want no part in, I would like to publicly answer the stupidest question I have ever been asked. (50m ago)

FedericotheFirst: namely, the question I was asked by a woman in line behind me at a coffee shop. She recognized me as Ezio’s brother ‘from that show’ and therefore as Altair’s ‘respectably married’ cousin. (50m ago)

FedericotheFirst: Her question was: how could my family allow such a good wholesome real American boy to take up with some “gay cripple” and “terrorist” with the implication that it was worse than the time that he dated the “skeletal lesbian”.(49m ago)

FedericotheFirst: My answer, in order, is: my family does not own Altair. We do not control Altair. We either support or do not support him in his endeavors based on our own moral beliefs. (49m ago)

FedericotheFirst: Whether or not Altair is ‘good’ or ‘wholesome’ is debatable depending on your own beliefs and morals. (48m ago)

FedericotheFirst: His last name is Ibn-La’Ahad which doesn’t even sound American. That point is not as valid as the fact that if you know so much about his life that you can recognize me you should know (48m ago)

FedericotheFirst: that his Father was from Syria, his Mother was from England. He has dual citizenship to America and England but he was born in Syria. (47m ago)

FedericotheFirst: Altair is not white. (47m ago)

FedericotheFirst: Altair is not a ‘real American’ whereby your standards for determining that is based on the notion that he blends in with the majority. Altair is a naturalized citizen. (47m ago)

FedericotheFirst: His boyfriend is not a cripple. His boyfriend is not a terrorist. His boyfriend is an amputee. His boyfriend is also an American citizen. (46m ago)

FedericotheFirst: in fact, his boyfriend is a long time champion of compassion, understanding and basic human rights. (45m ago)

FedericotheFirst: You, woman from the coffee shop, are a bigoted, racist piece of trash. I will gladly support my cousin in dating the man of his choosing because they love one another. (45m ago)

FedericotheFirst: which is a far more precious wonder in this miserable world than any amount of hate can defeat. (40m ago)

FedericotheFirst: @Sass-badger is gay though. So you got that right at least. (40m ago)

Malik snorted and he held the phone back out toward Altair. “That was good,” he said. Then he picked up London (very upset to be disturbed) and set her on the floor before motioning his hand at Altair to come up and lay next to him. The couch was wide enough they could fit as long as they didn’t mind being so close to one another. He closed his eyes because Altair was warm (everywhere) and his arms were strong around him (for now).

“I love you,” Altair said.

Malik smiled. “Good.” But also, “I love you too,” like a yawn.


	71. Chapter 71

> **Kadar**
> 
> We’ll be there in about half an hour
> 
> Will you be ready?
> 
> Yes. But why is it you texting and not my brother?
> 
> We stopped for food. He was arguing with Maria
> 
> In a friendly manner?
> 
> Yes. Getting back in the car

“But does Ezio even look like that, really?” Malik was turned just enough in the front seat that he could see Maria in the backseat. Maria was leaning forward enough that Altair could see her grin in the periphery of his vision. 

“You want my opinion?” Maria asked.

“Yes, your opinion as a professional lesbian—is Ezio worth all the hype?” 

Maria laughed at the words ‘professional lesbian’ with such clear joy that Altair was rolling his eyes at the traffic around them, sparing a sideways glance to see Malik’s whole face in rapt attention of what she would say. He thought about interjecting something (because Ezio was exactly what the hype made him out to be) but he left it for her to answer. It had taken them this many days to have an actual conversation and even if this one was about the relative attractiveness of his various cousins, he didn’t want to interrupt. “Yes,” Maria said. “He is. I didn’t want him to be—and if you’ve seen the rest of his family you wonder how the hell it even happened. His uncle looks like his face has been run over with a car. Giovanni and Maria aren’t terribly attractive—Maria’s slightly better than her husband. Federico might have been cute if he hadn’t broken his face so many times. Claudia is—well, she’s not her brother.” Maria shrugged. 

Malik scoffed. 

“But,” Maria cut in, “see, it also matters what attracts you. For me, what makes a man handsome isn’t his features or his body—I’ve met countless men who are attractive to others that are repulsive because of their attitude or the way they carry themselves. Ezio is physically very handsome and even if you have no love for him, you have to admit that his face is very nearly perfect. But he is also genuinely an attractive person in many other ways.”

Altair cleared this throat at that thought and Malik grinned over at him. Either out of momentary amusement or in remembrance of the many times they had argued about how Ezio was incapable of being blamed for anything. Either way, Malik turned around to face forward again, shaking his head as he went. “I don’t believe it,” he said, “I just don’t see it.”

“Of course you don’t,” Maria countered, “look at what you’re dating.” She reached up to slap Altair on the arm and then slid back into her place in the backseat. “Clearly what attracts you is purely animal in nature. It’s Darwinism at its finest. You chose a mate that is physically and socially capable of supporting and defending you. I commend the selection.”

The outburst of laughter from the passenger side of the car stopped just short of being truly offensive. Altair glanced over and Malik didn’t even look repentant when he said, “that’s not why I picked him. I don’t need someone to protect me.”

“I don’t believe you. Tell me the fact that your boyfriend could beat up someone in your defense doesn’t turn you on.” Maria’s voice was sliding along the line of windows, seeming to come from somewhere closer to the door than the middle of the seats. Altair didn’t know if she was even looking at Malik when she spoke but when he looked up into the rearview mirror she was glancing out at the traffic around them.

Malik’s silence was vaguely sullen. Then he made a short sound of frustration. “On a purely sexual level, the fact that he is strong and capable of fighting does attract me. On an intellectual level, the important level, the fact that he doesn’t is far more attractive. It’s probably more significant to me that he knows what fucking pemphix means than that he can bash someone’s face in.”

“The two of you are awful people,” Altair cut in. “Shallow, terrible people. You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

Maria laughed but Malik just smiled over at him. “Not all of us can be as open and accepting as you,” he said.

Maria just laughed harder.

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> If I agree to take you on a helicopter tour of the city, you have to agree to go shopping with me.
> 
> Sure
> 
> And allow me to buy you clothes. I accept no less.
> 
> That seems like a strange requirement
> 
> While your normal wardrobe is oddly adorable, being seen with me requires coordination. I do this for everyone.
> 
> Now that makes more sense
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Fine. See you when I get to the city.

Kadar met the car outside not because he didn’t want the occupants in his house (although, he got the feeling from Mother’s frown that she wasn’t overly excited about the notion of rich celebrities from foreign countries in her house) but because they were already an hour late arriving. He had locked the door thirty minutes ago when they said they were ‘close’ and spent the remainder of the time sitting on the front steps with his phone, yawning his way through waiting for Claudia to reply to him.

When they finally pulled up to the curb, Malik rolled his window down and stared at him with one eyebrow cocked up like he had any right to judge. “Ready?” is what his brother said to him rather than any number of the things he must have been thinking. 

Kadar went around to the trunk to throw his bag into it and climbed into the backseat (an actual torture device for people with long legs) and found Maria Thorpe looking remarkably casual in a t-shirt and jeans with her hair pulled up in a ponytail. He hadn’t made it a particular priority to learn anything about her but through her association with Altair he had come to understand that she was usually very pale and very severe. Her pictures were largely a series of increasingly hatefully cold glances shared between her and the unfortunate person hiding behind the camera. To see her relaxed into the backseat with a vibrant pink in her cheeks was surreal. 

“Sorry we’re late,” Altair said. He was looking at his phone rather than looking back at Kadar but whatever he read must have amused him because his lips pulled up at the edges. He set the phone down and looked up again, “ready?”

“Yup,” Kadar assured him. 

Maria was looking at him with narrowed eyes, “are you bigger now than last time I saw you?”

“Probably,” Kadar answered. He did his very best to look impressive and tall. 

“He’s not slouching,” Malik corrected from the front seat. “He sits up straight but when he’s standing he slouches to look smaller.” 

“Well don’t do that,” Maria said almost immediately. “Use your height to your advantage. It’s perfect for looking down on smaller people.” And whatever that meant was an addendum to a joke that happened before he got in the car because Malik burst into laughter and Altair just sighed. Maria put her hand on his arm like bracing herself for the laughter that was shaking her body. 

“Has it been like this the whole time?” Kadar asked.

“Yes,” Altair said almost simultaneously with:

“No,” from Maria and,

“Yes,” from Malik.

Kadar just sighed. “Well at least the trip won’t be boring.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Is Kadar staying with us or Claudia?
> 
> Preferably you.
> 
> God knows what Claudia would do to him.
> 
> I think she actually likes him
> 
> In a respectful way, not in a ‘this is my new toy’ way
> 
> She was here earlier and asked if it would be offensive to buy him clothes so he looked good next to her
> 
> Well why he’s staying with you, warn him about the entire Auditore family.
> 
> No reason to let him get caught in that trap.
> 
> I won’t be doing that.

It was not that Desmond was fed up with Lucy’s cousins. It was just that, as soon as the wedding was over and they were gone, his life would improve. There would be much less of a need to hide in his room reading Lucy’s books (since he didn’t really have many of his own) and finding excuses to leave. He wouldn’t have to deal with Lucy pacing around their bedroom with her fingers curled up look hooks and a litany of furious babbling falling out of her mouth about how angry she was about the way the cereal bowls were stacked. 

“I am putting my hair in the ugliest pony tail I can and I’m wearing my gym shorts to marry you,” Lucy said (out of nowhere) when she slammed the bedroom door behind her sometime after three in the afternoon. Desmond had been (avoiding the cousins) napping because he’d worked for what felt like an eternity the night before. His intention had been to reset his sleeping schedule so he would be awake for his wedding and asleep at night but that was before his five hour nap. Lucy didn’t stomp but come over toward the bed with her hands on her hips and her head shake-shaking back and forth. “Maybe I just won’t shower that morning and I’m not wearing make-up. You’re going to marry me in exactly the same way you see me every morning.”

Desmond was only half-awake, but he reached out from under the blankets to grab Lucy by the pants pocket and dragged her into bed with him. It was a delicate affair if only because she was all bony parts when she was angry. It took every ounce of his considerable charm to get her to lay with him. She was the little spoon, still stiff with inconsolable anger when he kissed the back of her neck. “I would be glad to marry you exactly how I see you every morning.” His fingers found hers and threaded through. 

Her sigh was like deflating. “I know you would,” she said. She kissed his hand. “Kadar would probably be pissed if I didn’t wear the dress though.” She turned her head to look at him. “Since he helped pick it out and all.”

“I’m not sure that kid can be pissed.” He shifted the way he was laying so she could roll onto her back and their joined hands were pressing back-and-forth against one another like a half-assed attempt at wrestling. She was wearing shorts so her legs were bare up to the thigh and he was distracted entirely by how the pink spots of anger were in her cheeks because he thought he might have a terminal case of loving this woman. “I just never thought I’d find someone like you,” he said. If only because, in that moment, it felt like the whole miserable story of his life had been set up to defeat him. Most of his ambitions in life had revolved around the idea that he might one day ignore the people he didn’t want around so completely that they would abandon him. Even in his most secret daydreams he had not imagined he would be _here_ (ever) much less so soon. 

Lucy’s smile was the most precious thing he had ever seen. She put her free hand on his face to pull him down to kiss him.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I had the most peculiar conversation just now.
> 
> That does no surprise me
> 
> Yes, of course it doesn’t.
> 
> So enjoying post-coital snacks with Ezio when he gets very serious.
> 
> He let me know that there are certain guidelines for behavior at his family functions. 
> 
> I’m paraphrasing his words. 
> 
> That I am expected to be polite and courteous to Altair because we will be at his house. And that if I fail that, I am only protected during the actual period of time that Desmond is getting married.
> 
> Naturally, I inquired about during the reception.
> 
> I don’t think the reception is covered
> 
> Altair is in the wedding.
> 
> That is approximately what he said. So I asked him if he would break up the fight if one started.
> 
> I don’t think he would
> 
> He said, ‘if you start a fight, you finish a fight. You can’t expect someone else to do it for you.’
> 
> It makes me wonder what sort of people we have involved ourselves with.
> 
> Maybe you should just not start a fight.

Malik went with Kadar to Lucy and Desmond’s door. They shuffled their feet from the elevator to the door, each of them dragging a few steps behind until they had slowed themselves to a stop. Kadar was carrying his bag with the strap across his chest and the heavy duffle hanging carelessly behind his back. Malik had his hand in his pocket and a persistent sort of worry caught in his throat. “Hey,” he said (since they were alone), “do I have to stop being friends with Leonardo?” With anyone else, (someone less used to questions that seemed to be pulled from thin air), there might have been some manner of backstory before an answer could be offered. 

Kadar shifted on his feet and pressed his lips together. His hands were clutching the strap across his chest. “I think,” but he couldn’t figure out what words he wanted to follow that up because he stopped again. “I don’t think you have to stop being friends with him. I think you need to make sure that he understands the way things are and I don’t think you have. He needs you to say, and to really mean, we’re friends but I’m with Altair and you have to respect that. You can’t keep letting him poke Altair with a stick and then getting upset when Altair doesn’t like it.” 

Malik sighed. “Altair said that I protect Leonardo.”

“Well, you do.”

He just sighed again. It would have been easier if he could claim utter ignorance, if some part of him hadn’t been aware (all the time) that if he gave up the imagined advantage that Leonardo had over Altair he would have nothing left to protect himself. It wasn’t even that he wanted to hurt Altair, but that it was comfortable to know that he had a safety net and a ready weapon to do it if he needed. Malik grimaced at the ground and then looked up at Kadar (feeling as guilty in that moment as he should have felt the week before). 

“Look,” Kadar said. “There’s no question about the fact that Altair would go to war on your behalf. Absolutely no question that he wants you and he’s willing to prove it. You asked him for two million signatures and broad gestures of commitment. So now you have to do the same—what does he need or want to prove that you’re sincere? If it’s just to know that you disapprove of Leonardo’s taunting? Or knowing that you trust him? That’s not such a big sacrifice? I don’t know. You have to do what feels right. But I think you need to be the one that draws the lines at first.”

Malik’s phone vibrated in his pocket (meaning that Altair was ready, most likely) and he nodded (for lack of anything to say). “Have fun, don’t let Claudia eat you alive.” And he hugged Kadar before he left him outside of Desmond’s front door.

“You too,” Kadar said as he was walking away. “Don’t let the old lady fatten you up too much.”

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> If I slap Lucy will she slap me back?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Don’t do it. She’s stressed and even when she’s not, she’s not one to fight with
> 
> What about her cousin?
> 
> Can I slap the cousin?
> 
> Violence is bad. Flirt with them instead.
> 
> Fine.

The drive to the old house was a long-quiet-affair that started with Malik frowning out the window in that way he did whenever he was arguing with himself. Altair had said, “okay?” if only to judge how he should feel in the silence of the car. The sound of the road and the low murmur of the radio did a poor job of filling the empty space. Malik look startled out of thought at the sound of his voice and glanced over at him with a reflexive smile, that kind of thing that was so automatic there was no stopping it. “Yeah,” Malik said, “thinking something through.”

“Can I turn the radio up?” Altair asked. He wanted to say something like, ‘you can talk to me if you want’ but Malik hadn’t ever (in his experience) actually talked when he was making that particular face so he didn’t waste his time making the offer. Instead, he turned the dial on the radio after he received the ok and concentrated on the road and the music. 

The old house was a looming shape in the murky gray light. The lights in the front made it seem like something out of a movie, the sort of behemoth that featured prominently in horror movies and costume dramas. Altair pulled around the curving drive that put him nearest the door. If Malik were intimidated (or impressed) by the sheer size of his childhood home, it didn’t show on his face. There was no shock or surprise at being greeted at the door by one of the many staff members that had been recalled (or hired) from semi-retirement to clean and prepare the house for the impending flood of family members that would be coming back. He didn’t react to having his bag taken by one of the younger gentleman or the intentionally intimidating openness of the foyer. The dual grand staircases had been built with the very purpose of making any man who stepped into the house feel very small and very powerless (or so Grandmother liked to tell it that way). That sort of extravagant wealth and the deliberateness of showing it off was a slap in the face of any man who coveted power but had none.

Altair curled his fingers into Malik’s and pulled him away from the front of the house, around to the massive kitchen (stocked to the brim with food and busy, bustling bodies setting to work already to prepare the feasts that would be necessary to feed such a large number of people). They went down the back hallway, the one meant for the permanent staff that had small suites tucked into unseen corners of the house. 

“Does this hallway ever end?” Malik whispered at him just before they made it to Mrs. Finch door. He tugged at his shirt and fussed with his hair in the time between Altair knocking and the door being opened.

Mrs. Finch was inside, looking thinner than she ever had been. Her skin had gone a particular sort of translucent he remembered from the long hours of his Grandmother’s slow death but she smiled at them with such vitality that he couldn’t dwell on it. Her arms went immediately around him as she said, “there’s my boy,” and her hug was so tight he thought she might crack the bones of her thin arms with the effort. When she released him, they turned together to look at Malik. 

“Mrs. Finch this is Malik,” Altair said. He stood near the door while she stepped up with both of her hands out, hovering between the need to hug him and the stubbornly resistant stiffness of Malik’s body. In the end, she grasped her hands around Malik’s and smiled at him.

“I am very pleased to meet you,” she said with so much sincerity it made her voice waver. “Come in, I’m just finishing up some dinner. Come in, come in,” she said again. And she motioned them in after her. 

Altair followed her in to the small round table that served as her dining room, already set for three. “Where’s Mr. Finch?” 

“Ah,” she called from inside the little kitchen, “it seems someone has hired a full staff to prepare for a wedding and if you recall anything from your childhood, Mr. Finch is quite particular about his rose garden. I imagine he’ll be outside supervising the children that you brought in to prepare until long after they are gone.” She came back in carrying a steaming dish and set it on the trivet. “Sit down,” she said and motioned at him to take a seat. 

Malik slid into his own chair without being fussed at so Altair sat as well. “It’s going to take an entire staff to get the house into shape for this thing. I’m pretty sure they invited everyone they know plus everyone that everyone they know knows. It was a fairly open invitation.”

“Well that explains the security staff that I heard will be coming the day of,” Mrs. Finch said. She came back from the kitchen again with a serving spoon and set it down by the steaming dish before sitting in her own seat. “We just need to leave it set a minute. I hope you don’t mind casserole. I would have made something better if my kitchen hadn’t been given away.” 

Altair sighed and Mrs. Finch reached over to pat his hand. “I’m starving,” he said, “I feel like I’ve been driving all day.”

“You have been,” Malik said. “The food smells delicious.” Which was more than he’d said for the past couple of hours. He stopped looking around the apartment with cautiously curious eyes and looked down at his plate and then over at Mrs. Finch instead. The smile on his face was no more sincere but without a more intimate knowledge of him, it probably wasn’t obvious. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about your cooking.”

Mrs. Finch was pink-and-pleased to hear it. “You are quite a handsome man.” Then she turned and looked at Altair, “you must have more of your Mother in you than we thought—similar taste in men.” (Which was fairly embarrassing to be said.) But Mrs. Finch was turning back to look at Malik almost immediately. “I heard from one of the other boys that you’re from Syria as well. If it’s not rude to ask, how long have you been in the US?”

“Most of my life,” Malik said. “I was two years old, I think. My Mother and Father moved here when she was pregnant with my brother. He was born here, so at least eighteen years.”

“You’re so young,” Mrs. Finch said immediately. “Twenty?”

“Yes ma’am.”

Then Mrs. Finch sat back in her seat and pressed her hands to her lap. She was caught between being impressed and being horrified to learn that. After a moment she just smiled again. “Well, how old was your parents when they were married?” 

“Mrs. Finch,” Altair cut in.

“I think my Mother was, uh, I’m twenty and she’s going to be forty-one this year? I think she was married when she was eighteen or nineteen. My father was four or five years older than her. I forget.” 

“Your mother is only forty-one?” Altair repeated. He hadn’t even considered how old Lamah was because she was a parent and therefore a generation removed from him. Anyone that had a full-grown child was far more of an adult that he was (or had any hope to be). “Edward is thirty—five?” He looked at Mrs. Finch.

“Yes, that’s right,” Mrs. Finch agreed. “Don’t look so scandalized. Your Mother would have been forty-four. In fact, she was nineteen when she married your father. You may think this is the sort of nonsense that belongs in the tabloids but I think that there are things that get passed down through our genetics. Some people go their whole lives without ever finding anyone they could love and some people find the one they want to be with early. Now,” Mrs. Finch picked up the serving spoon and motioned for Malik’s plate. He held it up for her and she heaped the casserole on it until the plate was wavering in his grip. “You’re going to meet a lot of skeptics, there’s going to be plenty of people that tell you that you’re fools and that you’ll never make it.” She motioned for Altair’s plate and he held it for her. If Malik’s helping was generous, his was obscene with generosity. “But, you have to remember nobody can make those sort of choices except yourselves.”

Malik looked across the table at him with a rueful smile. Altair grinned back with his shoulders lifting up and down. 

“Take care of one another,” Mrs. Finch said with a soft waver in her voice. She was sitting in her seat, looking at the two of them. Her hand was pressed to her chest.

For the briefest of moments, Malik looked embarrassed (or ashamed) and he nodded his head. “We will,” he said. Then he looked down at his plate, “this really does smell delicious. Altair told me that you used to make hippo pancakes?”

“Now, you wouldn’t think it of him, but it was Federico that started that. He hated pancakes—so he said—so his _mother_ made him eat them every morning for breakfast until he decided he liked them. So I let him pick what he wanted them to look like. There for a while I was very skilled at making pancakes look like just about anything. Hippos were Altair’s favorite but there were many other shapes.” When she looked at him there was a mist of sadness in her eyes that almost formed to real tears. 

“What was Ezio’s favorite?” Altair asked because he couldn’t take that look of sadness. That same look that had followed him through the weeks before his Grandmother died. The last days when she clung to him with all the strength in her arms and pressed her cheek against the top of his head. Grandmother hadn’t ever-ever said (I’m going to miss you when I go) but he thought he heard it in the way she looked at him and the shallow grip she kept on him. 

“Howler monkeys,” Mrs. Finch said.

Malik was surprised into laughter and Mrs. Finch laughed with him. Oh so sweet and oh so sincere. Malik looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry.”

“No, it fit the boy.” Mrs. Finch licked her lips. “Edward liked banana shaped pancakes, with banana slices. And chocolate syrup if he could get it.” Then she picked up the serving spoon again and dished out food for herself. “Maybe after dinner I could show you some of the photo albums. The sort of pictures that have yet to make it on the internet.”

“Sure,” Malik said. “Are they embarrassing?”

“Oh yes,” Mrs. Finch promised.

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Why do I have this feeling you’re the reason Maria is flirting with Sam?
> 
> Which one is Sam?
> 
> The taller cousin. Blonde, kind of looks like Lucy
> 
> If Lucy were ugly, you mean.
> 
> Well I wasn’t going to say that
> 
> So at this moment, Maria is hardcore flirting with her
> 
> If I were at the bar right now, I’d just assume they were going to fuck in the back room
> 
> This is champion level flirting
> 
> But Katie doesn’t approve
> 
> I thought they wanted to marry rich.
> 
> I don’t know if Maria is fake flirting anymore

Lucy interrupted Maria running her fingers through Sam’s hair by clearing her throat and saying (very loudly), “so, you wanted to talk about the bachelorette party?”

Maria turned her face away from Sam (with obvious difficulty that could honestly have been genuine or faked) after smiling very sincerely at the woman and shifted her body ever so slightly on the couch they were sharing so there was a modest sliver of space between them. She leaned forward to pick up her glass of wine, “oh yes,” she said, “I was just curious about the amount and sort of alcohol that would be acceptable.”

“Shouldn’t you already have this planned?” Katie asked. “The wedding is in two days.” 

There wasn’t enough distance between Katie and Maria to have allowed anyone to save the poor foolish girl if Maria had put action to the murderous glaring send in the cousin’s direction. Rather than address Katie (at all), Maria sipped her wine and said, “beer or wine? I’ve been told that the Italian cousins have a reliable cure for a hangover so there’s no need to worry about that.”

“Do they?” Lucy asked.

“Yes,” Desmond said. “Federico and Ezio perfected it because they went out and got Ezio drunk for a month straight after he turned twenty one. Or so that’s how they tell the story.”

“Ha,” Maria said, “they did not wait for Ezio to be twenty one.” Then she set her glass down again. “Think about it. The alcohol is the last detail.” What she didn’t say was that Altair had planned Lucy’s whole bachelorette party. 

“I prefer beer,” Lucy said. Then her hand slid up inside of his arm to grip at his fingers, squeezing tighter once they threaded through. She tipped her head closer to his, “what the hell is Maria doing with my cousin?”

“I don’t know,” Desmond whispered back. “What is your cousin doing with Maria?”

“We should get some sleep,” Katie said. She went around Maria (with a wide-wide circle) to reach down and grab Sam by the arm and hauled her up. They both smiled their way through good-nights and well-wishes before Katie dragged her cousin down the hallway. Their whispering could be heard but not understood as they headed toward their rooms.

Maria looked very pleased with herself as she leaned back into the couch and crossed her legs in front of her. When she noticed Lucy staring at her, she said, “Altair said I couldn’t slap them.” Then she picked up her glass again and took another drink. “This was also satisfying.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Saw a picture of Altair and Claudia wearing tea dresses together today.
> 
> Heard the story about how he used to flirt with all the little boys that visited him.
> 
> Saw the pictures of the pirate ship including a picture of the entire crew. 
> 
> Yes, there were over three hundred people in the picture. There was a fullsized pirate ship. Two of them.
> 
> With sails
> 
> I can never have children with this man.
> 
> I mean you couldn’t anyway.
> 
> Not without a woman.
> 
> You know what I meant
> 
> It’s one in the morning.
> 
> Why aren’t you asleep?
> 
> I was. I’m going back now.

The bedroom that Altair led him to wasn’t anything at all like he was expecting. It wasn’t that it wasn’t oversized on its own but it wasn’t nearly as large or grand as he was expecting. There wasn’t enough time to take everything in because he was caught between the sort of excitement that came from sharing stories (filled to the brim with love) and a terrible exhaustion that was making his whole body feel weighted. The combination left him with an odd sensation of vibrating in place. He pulled his clothes off because the bed was inviting and near while Altair talked to him about the bathroom and how to take a shower. 

Malik wasn’t (really) listening but he nodded along. When the noise of Altair’s talking finally stopped he dragged him down into bed with him. “I’m tired,” he said with his leg and his arm over Altair’s body. He wanted skin but settled for the warmth of his body through his jeans and T-shirt. “Mrs. Finch is nice.”

Altair nodded. “She is.” He turned his head and kissed Malik’s hair. “Go to sleep.”

\--

> **Edward**
> 
> Unfortunately, I am in New York City and the asshole who said he’d meet me here isn’t
> 
> Which one?
> 
> Federico. Cristina had a doctor’s appointment she forgot to reschedule. I can’t even be angry because it’s a baby appointment.
> 
> Do you need a ride? A place to stay? Both?
> 
> Both would be excellent but I could manage them myself as long as I knew where I was supposed to be.
> 
> You can go to the old house. I could come get you. Lucy has to pick up her Mother and Father from the airport.
> 
> That is very kind of you to offer. I am going to spare you the joy of my children. I’ll rent a car.
> 
> In which case, I’ll see you soon. When is Federico coming?
> 
> This evening. He said he wouldn’t miss the bachelor party.
> 
> Great. See you there

Desmond didn’t get to the house until after ten because he had to wait for Claudia to show up to take Kadar. Then he had to walk London who had spent most of her time sniffing and sneezing derisively about the sudden explosion of spring all around them. Her tiny paws had been disgusted to encounter mud where she expected something else. And he had therefore been forced to go all the way back upstairs to wash and blow dry the stupid dog before he could pack her into the car. 

By the time he made it to the house, there was already a man at the front door that took his keys and carried his bags inside. Desmond thanked him while he held onto London (because the dog was barking in little anxious woofs now and again whenever the stranger got too close). Inside, everything smelled like wood-polish and fresh-baked-heaven in a way that confused his stomach and his head. He stopped a man who was carrying a rolled up carpet, “do you know where Altair is?”

The man just blinked at him. “Um,” he said.

“Never mind,” Desmond said. “I’ll find him.” Then he pulled out his phone to ask the asshole where he was hiding.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> Where are you?
> 
> Are you alive?
> 
> Why are there so many people here?
> 
> Were there this many staff before?
> 
> I don’t recognize anyone.
> 
> If you come back from the dead eventually, I’m with Mrs. Finch.

Altair woke up after Malik but it was hard to say how much longer after. There was the distinct smell of fresh shampoo but Malik’s hair was dry. He wasn’t completely dressed but wearing the pajama pants he hadn’t put on the night before. The computer (always present) was still tucked away. Rather than frown at his laptop, Malik was sitting with his back against the headboard, reading a book that had been read nearly to pieces. His fingers were fit into familiar grooves along the spine while his thumb held the pages open. 

“Morning,” Altair said. He had wiggled out of most of his clothes during the night, and was rolled up in the blankets (the only ones on the bed) in nothing but his underwear. “What’re you reading?”

“My brother always went through my room,” was not an answer to the question, “I mean, always. He went through my closet and my drawers and everything. So I discovered in order to really hide things from him I had to stick them between the pages of books. Kadar’s not stupid—he’s pretty smart—but he doesn’t like reading the way I do. He doesn’t care about books.” Malik set the book down against his leg and let his fingers walk along the yellowed pages until he reached a part in the tight fold of them. He pulled out a slip of paper. “I don’t know when he figured it out. When I was in the accident, he stayed with me. One of the things he did was go to my dorm and pick up all my stuff. Leonardo and Sofia did it but he went along. They wouldn’t have known to look for the book behind my bed. He brought this to me, in the hospital because he knew I’d want it.” 

Altair had to his head tipped back to look at Malik. He wasn’t sure how to respond to the story (when it seemed to come from nowhere). “So there’s nowhere to hide something he can’t find?”

Malik snorted. “Well, he’s only going to look for it if he thinks it’s interesting. I think you’re safe. The point is,” Malik said as he unfolded a crinkled, wrinkled sheet of printer paper and spread it out flat, “it was you.” The paper was so worn at the fold lines that it was nearly in pieces. There was no mistaking the picture, one of the ones that he’d sent early on in their non-friendship, another picture of the view of a hotel room. There was a faint, gray reflection of him in the window only barely visible after so much time spent in a book. “I’m a far way off from perfect. You can’t let me get away with hurting you. Don’t tell me that you haven’t because I know that you have and I convinced myself that I was wrong. You have to tell me. Because I want this, and I want you. I don’t want you to accept anything from me that I wouldn’t accept from you.”

Altair smiled at the paper and folded it back up to slip into the pages of the worn out book. He picked the book up and set it to the side before gripping Malik behind the knee and pulling him down flat on the bed. It was easy to lay against his side and kiss him. 

“I’m serious,” Malik said. He pushed one hand against Altair’s chest to hold him away. There was just enough space to feel the warmth of him and want more of it. “Promise.”

“I promise,” Altair said. He kissed Malik again. And Malik kissed him back with a sudden ferocity, as if he had been meditating on a potential loss. It was the way he kissed Altair when he was hurt, just after they finished working through a fight, like he thought he’d never have the chance again. Altair wanted to smother him with the knowledge that he would never want for this. It was easier to convey in touch than in words (or at least, easier for Malik to understand).

\--

BestofThree: @notyourbrother is actually three toddlers in a trench coat. (3m ago)

Notyourbrother: @bestofthree, exceptionally tall toddlers. (2m ago)

Bestofthree: but toddlers nonetheless (1m ago)

As it turned out, buying clothes with Claudia was an experience far and removed from buying clothes with his Mother. While he expected there would be a difference he didn’t expect that it would be so obvious. The part of him that was in charge of imagining differences in situation had simply lumped Claudia in with his Mother under the heading of ‘girls’ and decided they would approaching things in the same fashion. Therefore he’d decided that it would take approximately thirty minutes to choose clothing and leave.

Two hours later, he did not expect to be laying on the ground in front of a series of massive mirrors laughing so hard his face was brilliantly red and his lungs were aching. Claudia was standing to the side looking down at him, shaking her head back and forth at him. “Look at you,” she said, “get off the floor.”

The clothes that he was modelling (because they most certainly weren’t anything he’d be allowed to wear at his own house) cost more than half a year’s worth of tacos. He crossed his arms behind his head and his legs at the knee. “I don’t think that I will. You wanted to be taller than me.”

“That is what heels are for,” Claudia countered.

“I’m over six foot. You’re maybe five foot.” He smiled smugly at her and Claudia kicked him (very softly) in the side just below the ribs. He didn’t even bother muttering an ow but stuck his tongue out at her. “I guess I could just carry you around.”

Claudia laughed at that. “No,” she said. Then she reached down and grabbed him by the shirt front and pulled at him until he was on his feet again. She really was significantly smaller than him. It had been a constant cause of aggravation for her throughout the morning. But now that he was back on his feet, she dusted him off and straightened the T-shirt so it was tight across the right parts of his chest and then folded her fingers over the top of his pants and tucked it in. The first time she’d done it, he had been scandalized but the purely disinterested air that she employed was a bucket of cold water on any sexual thoughts. When she finished, she stood to the side of him and narrowed her eyes at the mirror. “I give up,” she said at last. “What is it that you would like to wear?”

“Jeans,” Kadar said. “T-shirts? Anything without buttons.”

At that Claudia rolled her eyes. “I need more men like Ezio. He understand the importance of dressing himself correctly. But if you will only be happy with T-shirts and jeans, let’s go find you a good pair of jeans. Then I have to find you something to wear to the wedding.”

“Why?” Kadar asked. “I brought my nice shirt.”

Claudia rolled her eyes at him. “You are my date. Therefore you must look nice next to me. It’s too late to get a real suit so I will accept a nice pair of pants and a decent shirt in a coordinating color. Maybe a vest. I don’t think a tie would suit you.” Then she motioned him after her. “Let’s go get the jeans.”

“You don’t have to buy me clothes,” Kadar said. 

“I know I don’t. I wasn’t going to because I thought you would find it offensive but I was advised by my reasonable cousin that if we are going to be friends I shouldn’t not do something I have done for all of my friends. He thought that friendship required understanding one another.” She looked vaguely embarrassed to be explaining it all.

“You asked for advice about this?” Kadar summarized. “That’s actually adorable.”

“Shut up. Now let’s go find you something I won’t be embarrassed to be seen next to.”

\--

> **Edward**
> 
> There are three little boys outside telling me that I don’t have authorization to be here. Please come save their lives.
> 
> Just hold Haytham back until I get there

Altair had only just managed to make it to the kitchen to steal something from breakfast. (Which was an embarrassing affair when one of the young ladies helping the catering staff saw him casually wandering through the kitchen apparently looking like a bum, and protested that he didn’t belong there. One of the other women had hissed ‘he owns the house’ at her and Altair had to stand and listen to an exaggeration of apologies.) He carried his pastry with him as he went. The side exit was closer but the front door took him directly to the confrontation. He was expecting Edward and the kids but was surprised to find Edward, his lesbian girlfriends, the kids and a rather large black man who was standing just behind Edward to the right with his arms crossed over his chest, hiccupping laughs now and again. 

“I am telling you,” Edward was saying as if he’d said it a few dozen times. He glanced sideways and saw Altair standing there and relaxed out of attack mode and motioned at him with a great deal of arrogance. 

“This is what happens when you’re ugly,” Altair said. He looked over at the two men that were valiantly protecting the front door from family intruders, “he’s not on the list.” The only list that Altair had compiled was a list of people that would not be allowed to attend because it seemed far easier than trying to round up the names of the people that were. The massive army of security personnel that were going to descend upon the house tomorrow would prevent very much mischief from happening (he was reasonably sure) and if it didn’t the innumerous security cameras would likely catch the perpetrators. “Mary, Anne.” He nodded at them and they smiled back. “Jenny,” and she waved with her fingers but otherwise stayed close to her father in a show of shyness that was completely unlike the way she’d behaved on the ship. “Captain,” he said to Haytham. The boy grinned at him. 

“This is Adéwalé,” Edward said. 

“Do you sleep with him too?” And it was meant to be a joke akin to the one that had been ongoing the entire time he’d been on the ship but Edward’s whole face turned a faint pinkish color and Adéwalé smiled with perfect smugness. 

“Sometimes,” Edward said. Then he cleared his throat, “do you have the key to the doghouse?”

“We’re going to sleep in a doghouse?” Haytham inquired from below the conversation. “Is it a real doghouse?” (And his sister sighing out a ‘no stupid’ immediately caused Haytham to start arguing with her about how it wasn’t stupid since his house was so big his doghouses must be big too.) 

“Oh, no. It’s in the cabinet. You can come through the front, I’ll grab it for you.” And he had even half turned around to go but Edward hesitated in place in a way that made everyone pause with him. There was a series of exchanged glances with lifted up eyebrows of concern before Adéwalé poked Edward in the back. 

“Right,” Edward said. Then he nodded his head. As soon as they were inside the front door there was a collective gasping noise from the crowd behind Edward. And he turned around to say, “why don’t you all wait here? We’ll be back.”

“I’m going to climb it!” Haytham shouted just before he darted forward toward the bannister (that honestly, every member of the family had climbed at one point or another). 

Altair led them to the cabinet in the kitchen that held all the keys for the rest of the house. During the greater portion of his childhood it had been kept lock with a master key only accessible from Mrs. Finch or Grandmother’s pocket. It had been refitted in the years since to have a number access code. He punched the code in and found the keys for the doghouse. “So,” Altair said as he handed them over. There were dozens of ears in the kitchen, half listening to everything he said, “what is the story about you and the house?”

Edward looked sheepish (embarrassed) but he shrugged it off. “That’s not a story for today.” He held the keys up, “thank you for these.”

“But will you come to the bachelor party? It’s in the grand room. There’s doors to the outside so you won’t have to go through the house.” That seemed like a fairly stupid compromise (to him, at least, who had grown up in the house and saw no particular evil in it) but Edward nodded with enough reluctance that it felt like a true compromise. 

“Yes, I’ll come.” 

Altair walked with him back out to the entrance. Haytham was dangling from the landing, skinny arms working to pull himself back up while Anne and Mary dashed up the steps to catch him before he fell and Adéwalé stood beneath him with his arms stretched out. Jenny was sitting on the top of the bannister, just as dainty as a princess, shaking her head at her brother.

“This is why you’re not allowed to do anything without supervision,” she said, “you don’t pay attention.”

“Ade!” Haytham shouted, “are you going to catch me? Are you going to catch me?”

“Yes,” Adéwalé said and the boy didn’t wait to be certain but let go of the bannister with both hands. He did land in Adéwalé’s arms and the two of them grunt under the effort of the impact before the boy laughed. “You should not do that again.”

“Alright all,” Edward called. “I’ve got the key, let’s go.” They all left, filing out through the door still talking about Haytham’s acts of stupidity (likened, he heard, to Edward’s).

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> I am going to explode.
> 
> My Mother is worried about me.
> 
> You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping.
> 
> She thinks I’m pregnant.
> 
> She keeps winking at me
> 
> I’m not pregnant. I’m going to chug a bottle of vodka in front of her to prove it.
> 
> Aren’t you driving?
> 
> My Dad is driving. He doesn’t like being a passenger.
> 
> Ah. Still, wait to chug the liquor until your party
> 
> I make no promises.
> 
> How are things there?
> 
> I still haven’t found Altair. I did find Malik
> 
> Ezio and Leonardo are on their way.

Malik had the very distinct look of someone who was trying very hard to be okay with the many overwhelming things that he was seeing. Desmond had found him at the top of the double staircase, clutching the bannister while he looked down at the people that were crossing back and forth carrying this-and-that. 

“It takes some getting used to,” Desmond said. He smiled at Malik when the man looked over at him. “Do you know where Altair is?”

“He went to rescue Edward about an hour ago. I don’t know where he is now. I don’t know where anything is. I’m not sure I can get back to the bedroom from where I am now.” He motioned at the floor beneath them. “I followed the noise.” Then he looked up at the high ceiling over their heads and behind him at the long-long hallway. “I don’t think someone gets used to this.”

“Well, it gets less shocking. Wait until the rest of the cousins are here. We all have rooms up here. My Father had a room up here until—well, Grandma had all his things removed.” Desmond shrugged his shoulders and looked down at the people. He had distanced the idea that they were making the whole house presentable for the sudden influx of people that were coming to watch him get married. There weren’t many that were staying overnight (as far as he knew only the cousins were invited to sleep over, but he had heard a rumor that anyone attending his bachelor party was guaranteed a spot on the floor to sleep if they brought a sleeping bag). “Everything alright?”

Malik’s eyebrows pulled in tight, “Leonardo told me that he was only protected during the hours of your wedding.” His expression was confused about what it wanted to be there, he motioned at the air, “is that the life I’m signing up to? Having to adjust to scheduling safe periods? To having the expectation that there will always be violence and fights? It seems to amuse everyone. The idea that it’s only inevitable.”

“No,” Desmond said. “Well—that’s not true. The Auditore family brings with it a certain—system of justice. They believe very strongly in the notion of absolute fairness. If you have been wronged, you avenge yourself and no harm will come to you for avenging yourself. All is forgiven.” He leaned forward, rested his forearms on the polished wood bannister and watched the workers unrolling a long carpet from the front door. 

“I don’t want to live like that. I thought Altair was exaggerating or finding excuses anywhere he could, but I’ve only just started to see the family from the inside and I can feel how pervasive that idea is.”

Desmond shrugged. “I’m not like that. Altair—he isn’t either. Not really. They egg him on, they encourage him and he’s stupid for any approval he can get.”

“But there will have to be compromise,” Malik said, “this is the way his family operates. Schedule times for nice behavior, violence and condescension. This isn’t ever going to change.”

Then Desmond straightened up again. “No. It won’t ever change. What you’re about to live through—this is the worst it gets. I can promise you, one or more of them will fight before this is over. And you can feel it happening before they even get here. It’s a cold dread in your gut, and you have to slap on a happy face and you have to enjoy it while it’s good. One by one? They are all good people. It’s the combination, the audience of fools that get them going. But if you’re going to bail on him over this, do it early. Don’t try to make yourself okay with it. They won’t change.” He clapped a hand on Malik’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll show you the easiest routes to get around.”

 

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Helicopters go really high
> 
> I was going to tell you but I thought it was obvious.
> 
> Are you enjoying yourself?
> 
> Well a pretty girl is holding my hand
> 
> Well
> 
> As long as you’re enjoying it.

Claudia was holding his hand because he had shrieked when the helicopter started going upward and (as she put it) he turned completely white. Her palm was small against his, her fingers were dainty in comparison to his. And she had smiled at him with a roll of her eyes when they started out. While he was watching the whole of New York city (big-and- _beautiful_ ) pass beneath them, Claudia must have been watching him because very suddenly she said, “I wish I could be so amazed; so in love.”

Kadar didn’t want to look away for long but he glanced over his shoulder at her (caught between confusion about the statement and offense at some sideways implication). “It’s not that hard.”

“When I was a child; I wanted a puppy. It was the only thing that I wanted. I asked for it every birthday and every Christmas. When my parents did not give me one, I went and tried to get one for myself. I got lost and I did not want to call my parents, it was during the winter so my brothers were home with us. I called Federico and I told him where I was. He came and got me. But we did not go home, he took me out to get a treat. He sat across a table from me and he said, _you will never get a puppy. It is better you understand the world as it is and stop wishing for things that you can never have._ He said, _do not love things that can be taken from you._ ” The interesting thing about the monologue wasn’t the way she looked at nothing exactly but how even and unaffected her voice was by relating the whole story. When she was finished, she looked over at him and smiled at him with hollowed-out generosity. 

Kadar leaned back into the seat and tightened his fingers around hers. (He wanted to hug her because it seemed very much like he needed to hug her.) “Well,” he said, “when my brother was little all he wanted was a cat. He never got a kitten. My Mother didn’t want one and she thought we weren’t responsible enough and that it was more important to focus on our studies than worry about a cat. He didn’t know how to enjoy things either. Then one day, he went to a prom and had sex with some asshole rich guy who didn’t even belong there, he lost his fucking mind and I found a little kitten drowning in a puddle so I convinced my Mother to let me keep it and give it to him. Now, Malik isn’t perfect but he’s finally figured out how important joy is.” Kadar shrugged. “And he has two cats.”

Claudia crossed her legs at the knee and leaned her shoulder against him. “What about you?”

“I want a friend,” Kadar said. “A real one. One that isn’t using me. One that isn’t—I don’t know. One that cares.”

And that seemed to make Claudia’s fake smile slip. Her fingers gripped his tighter. “I’ll be your friend. What will we do?”

“Well if you’re not busy on May twenty-third, I don’t have a date to my prom anymore.” He meant it as a joke more than an actual invitation and was therefore completely ready to respond when Claudia said:

“I would be honored to go. What will we wear?”

“It’s Twilight themed,” Kadar said. “I think you’d look good in red.” 

Claudia smiled at him again. “I do look very good in red. Go back to watching the city. I don’t want you to miss it.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Who is picking up Sofia?
> 
> Claudia and Kadar
> 
> Ah, excellent.
> 
> Ezio is very excited to meet you. Don’t mind him.

Even with the warning, the way Ezio hugged him was a shock. The man looked far too excited to see him. He had simply walked out of the double doors at the back of the house, across the patio (or whatever one called this thing they were eating lunch on) and wrapped his arms around Malik. His grip was constrictor-tight and then he leaned back with both hands gripping Malik’s shoulders when he said, “I am very glad to finally meet you in person.”

Up close, in person, Ezio was simply as perfect as every picture of him would lead one to believe. It seemed that the last of the boyish immaturity of his face had finally given way to a more refined sort of handsomeness. There was a faint shadow on his cheeks and jaw (the impending regrowth of a beard, perhaps). His hair was shiny and soft looking but pulled away from his face with a perfect sloppiness. And his smile was so purely joyful that it was impossible not to answer it. 

“Ok,” was the best Malik could manage.

“God damn it,” Altair said from the side. Ezio’s attention turned away from him to glance at Altair and he burst into a sudden laughter that made Malik jump before he was released. Ezio hugged Altair too (apparently full to the brim with good will) and clapped him on the back a few times for good measure. 

“Don’t be jealous, cousin,” Ezio said. He pulled back and shrugged away the frown that Altair offered him. “God himself would fall for my beauty.”

Altair’s response to that statement was to push his whole palm against Ezio’s face and knock him backward a few steps. “I don’t have to worry; he only likes smart men.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Leonardo countered. He was carrying his dirty artist bag. One of his hands was hanging onto the strap as if he were protecting it from one of the many staff members that seemed to pop out of nowhere and offer to transport whatever one was holding. “Malik’s tastes are shallow enough to be preoccupied with physical beauty above intelligence.” 

“I wouldn’t sleep with you,” Malik to Ezio. And he turned to look at Leonardo when he said, “there is a minimum IQ requirement.” Leonardo met his eyes as the smile flattened on his face and he looked disappointed in the words even while an eruption of laughter echoed out from behind him where Ezio and Altair were standing. 

“I like him,” Ezio said. “He suits you.” 

“Yes he does,” Leonardo agreed. Then he looked away from Malik and back at the house, “where’s our room?”

Ezio said, “I’ll show you,” and left without any protest. It was only when he got to the door that he paused long enough to turn around, “when is dinner?”

“The same time it always was,” Altair said, “anyone not at the table doesn’t get fed—so I heard.” And he smiled after his cousin until the door was closed and then he glanced over at Malik but did not say anything. Rather than address the whole exchange, he motioned out toward the gardens, “did you still want to go?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. 

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> We are here; I am not coming looking for you so you better show up at the door.
> 
> I’m coming

Desmond met Lucy at the door in time to see the early arrival of a few dozen cases of booze. The man at the door (a man that clearly wished to be a bouncer at a bar) put his hand up to Lucy and her parents in a way that was almost certain to get his wrist broken. The look on his (future wife)’s face was nothing short of absolutely homicidal. He didn’t hear what the man asked but he heard Lucy say, “I’m the God-damned bride.” And when that didn’t free her from the unwanted interference, Desmond stepped down out of the doorway.

“Hey,” he said, “her name is Lucy Stillman. Those are her parents. But that man,” he pointed at the man finishing up loading a dolly with liquor, “is not where he should be. Deliveries go to the side entrance.” 

Lucy looked oddly grateful and angrier than she had been a moment before. Rather than lingering on the anger, she took her Mother’s hand and pulled her toward the door. Desmond held it for them until everyone was inside. There was an echo of noise coming from the kitchen to the left, from the grand ball room beyond the staircase and from somewhere upstairs where a small army of women and men had been working on airing out the unused bedrooms to accommodate the anticipated arrival of an unknown number of wedding guests. 

Bee, especially, seemed to have stalled out right inside of the door with an awe-struck paralysis keeping him standing in one spot. “Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about you providing for Lucy do we?”

Lucy rolled her eyes.

“This isn’t mine,” Desmond said. “This belongs to my cousin. If you follow me, I’ll show you to your room.” He had jokingly asked Altair if he were going to give out maps for the guests with assigned rooms but Altair had laughed-hard-and-long and then said ‘no’ and explained that there were enough staff members working overnight and throughout the next day to assure nobody got lost around long hallways and blind corners. (The staff, however, did have maps.) “It’s still a few hours until dinner so I could give you a full tour if you were interested.”

“We have been travelling for a while,” Lucy’s Mother said (compulsively), “maybe after we had time to catch our breath.”

“Of course,” Desmond said. He led them up the grand staircase (because Altair said there was no point in teaching casual guests the system of back halls and staircases) and down the hall to their room. It was one of the larger suites and it was obvious from the dumb stares on their faces that they were unsure how to proceed. Desmond just stayed in the doorway and watching them trying to show gratitude or acceptance.

“Oh, our bags,” Lucy’s Mother said. “Well that was very kind of them.” She looked around and then turned a small circle to look at Desmond. “Maybe just give us a half an hour or so, and then we’d love a tour.”

“Sure,” Desmond said. Lucy hugged both of her parents and then followed him out of the room. Someone inside closed the door and that left them in the momentary privacy of the momentarily empty hallway. He put his arms around Lucy and collapsed into him with dramatic exhaustion. “It’s just one more day.”

“When is dinner?” Lucy asked, “I was informed that I wouldn’t be allowed to see you after dinner. Thirty minutes isn’t a lot of time for sex but if we run right now we might still get a little foreplay in.”

Desmond snorted. But Lucy cocked up here eyebrows at him.

“I’m serious,” was all the warning that he got before she motioned toward their usual bedroom and took off at a run. He chased her through the hall, past a disapproving staff member and all the way to their bed.

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Have you be dickmatized?
> 
> What the hell is that?
> 
> I think it’s when you’ve been mesmerized by someone’s dick
> 
> But what are you actually asking?
> 
> Why are you picking a fight with Leonardo?
> 
> You’re not even here.
> 
> Oh, you think you’re the only one that whines to me about the other?
> 
> Let me be clear. I don’t care if the two of you fight. But if you’re fighting, is it because of a problem between the two of you?
> 
> Or is it a third party causing it?
> 
> You don’t have to be coy. Just ask if Altair broke me with his dick
> 
> I have more faith in you than that. 
> 
> But I also know you’ve been struggling with how to balance them. 
> 
> Maybe I just mean, don’t act rashly?
> 
> It’s been almost a year since he found out
> 
> It’s not rash anymore

“Oh I know that look.” It must have been the banished cousin because Malik did not recognize the voice or the face with any immediacy. It was a faintly familiar memory, briefly seen on some special Ezio’s show had done about a cousin reunion. In person, Edward was both taller and far more tanned than he had seemed on the TV. He held up a hand in greeting with a self-conscious lean to his body as if he were only waiting to be gotten rid of. “I’m Edward,” he said before he held his hand out to shake.

“Malik.” Then he scooted over on the bench that he had taken the entirety of. He had been feeling piggish after Altair had been called away to save some crisis with the staff and the deliveries. “What look?”

“Frustration,” Edward said. “Doesn’t look like much now, but this bench has seen its share of it. We’ve all found our way here at one time or another. I bet even the old bitch sat on the bench and weighed out the pros and cons.” Edward did not sit, however, but continue to stand and look at the bench as if it were the keeper of some grand secrets.

“Bitch?” Malik repeated.

“Ah—Phyllis. Grandmother.” Edward waved the thought away. “I actually came looking for Altair. They told me in the kitchen that he was out in the gardens.”

“No. He got called to handle some emergency about alcohol or something.” It seemed awkward to keep sitting so he moved to stand up and that seemed to spur Edward into sitting down. When he sat, he sprawled out, taking up half the bench with a slouch of his body that would have befit someone younger. “Comfortable?” Malik asked.

“Oh quite,” Edward said. After a pause, Edward went from looking at the flowering tree (that he didn’t remember the name of) to glancing at him, “he was a mess over you. I don’t think he’d mind me telling you. I don’t know the kid very well but I get the impression he’s not used to having his ideas challenged.”

“Most of his ideas were stupid.”

Edward laughed. “Oh, aye, I bet they were. He’s a good kid though. He just got a bad start in life.”

“Because of his Grandmother?” 

There was something that Edward wanted to say but did not. Rather than say what came to his mind first, he nodded his head. “Phyllis was—well, she was what she was. I think, a woman like that? Couldn’t raise a child. Its better she died when she did.”

Malik snorted at that notion. “From what I hear, Mama Maria isn’t a noticeable improvement.” 

 

There again, Edward laughed. “No. I guess she isn’t. But it wasn’t the same. No matter what they tell you, no matter what the intention was, there wasn’t anyone that could have raised Altair after Phyllis died. He was on his own from the moment she died. That’s how she would have wanted it; better that he take what she’d given him and find his own way than let someone come along and try to change him.” Edward laughed but it was a hard, hollow, grating sound. “I think Phyllis would have hated you.” But he smacked his hand against Malik’s back. “All the more reason we should all like you.”

“How’d you escape it?”

Edward’s grin was violent-and-criminal. “Bad example,” he said motioning at himself. “Taught Federico how to smoke and drink, gave him porn magazines and Altair found us wrestling and told his Grandmother. I don’t know—I was dismissed by the old bitch. She said, ‘Edward, you have disadvantages. I can’t abide an embarrassment.’ Then she gave me money and she sent me to sea.”

“What does wrestling have to do with anything? Haven’t the Auditore brother’s broken each other’s faces and arms and—isn’t that just something you do in this family?”

“I broke Federico’s face,” Edward said. “He ratted me out for killing Phyllis’ plants. I found out later, they thought I wanted to have sex with Federico because Altair told them we were rolling in the grass together.” He shrugged there, like it was old news, silly-and-forgotten. But then he slapped his hands against the insides of his knees and got up to his feet. “I guess I’ll just have to call him. Do you know when dinner is? There’s no food at the dog house and the kids have this notion I should feed them.”

“Six?” Malik wasn’t sure about that. “He said ‘same time it always was’ to Ezio, but I think he told me six.”

“And nobody eats that isn’t at the table when it starts,” Edward huffed a sigh. Then he waved bye as he walked away. “I’ll see you later.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Is something wrong with your brother?
> 
> That would really be a question to ask him
> 
> I did. He said he was ‘fine’
> 
> You have to learn the signs.
> 
> With a memory like yours, I don’t think it’ll take very long.
> 
> So pay attention, you’ll know when to push and when to give him space
> 
> But to help you out, is he being mean to you?
> 
> No.
> 
> Leonardo.
> 
> Well then you’re good. Leave him to it.

Claudia had agreed to pick Sofia up at the airport because Ezio had kindly asked her to do it. Malik had been all set to come back and get her but Sofia had insisted that Claudia was a perfectly capable person to deliver her to the family mansion. 

In the car, the way between the airport and the house, Sofia sat in the back humming along with the music and being unobtrusive and lovely (as she seemed to be always). Kadar thought about sending a message to Sofia (because maybe she knew if there was an acute problem with Malik) but he thought Claudia was smart enough to connect him sending a text with Sofia receiving one. 

“Kadar,” Sofia said after twenty minutes and six texts. She looked up from her phone with a look of absoluteness. “You know Altair better, tell him not to interrupt. They need to have this fight and be done with it.”

“Who? Claudia asked.

Kadar frowned at her and she stuck her tongue out at him. While her objection was a soft mutter (“I’m not Ezio, I can keep a secret), she didn’t interject herself into the conversation again. “Is it bad?”

“Petty,” Sofia corrected. “I have told them both I’d really rather have nothing to do with them so if you would be kind enough to help me figure out wherever I’m going to be sleeping, I’d be very happy to avoid them until they finish it.”

“Sure,” Kadar said. “I think we’re going to get there about dinner time.”

“Before,” Claudia corrected. “Whoever isn’t sitting when dinner is served, does not eat.” She spoke the words with a vicious hatred in them; that tone of long-bitter memories. But her smile was back again in a moment. “I will help you find your room. I imagine there will be an army of staff to assist as well. I believe there are quite a few people expected at the house tonight.”

“For the bachelor party?” Kadar asked. “I can’t go.”

“Better that you don’t,” Claudia said, “but you could put money on which of the morons will start a fight first. I always bet on Federico. He’s a miserable drunk; no sense of self-preservation.”

“Charming,” Sofia said from the backseat. “Is the bacherlorette party also at the house?”

“No. We’re going out. Maria played it. You’re welcome to go if you’d like. We’re much more civilized than the animals that will be at the house tonight.” The words even sounded sincere enough that Sofia smiled and promised to think about it.

\--

>   
>  **Federico**
> 
>   
>  Are we in the big house or the dog house?
> 
> I had planned for the main house
> 
> but you can go to the dog house if you want
> 
> It doesn't matter to me.
> 
> I was not sure if Edward ostracized himself or if he was asked to keep his children away.
> 
> That was all him
> 
> We will be there in half an hour. Stall dinner.

It wasn’t Malik that introduced him to Sofia, but Kadar, who was looking around the room for where his brother was (the answer was that he wasn’t in the room yet) and upon not finding him and settled back to look at Altair. “This is Sofia, Malik’s nicer friend. Sofia, this is Altair, that celebrity dick that Malik’s in love with.” 

“Nice to meet you,” Altair said. 

“Same,” Sofia answered, “you have an amazing house. Thank you for the generous room.”

Altair had repeated the same ‘no problem, my pleasure’ speech so many times that he recited it by rote even while he watched Malik come back into the banquet room. Kadar must have seen him as well because he just motioned sideways and then left Sofia standing in front of Altair as if they were good friends. He didn’t know much about Sofia (basically he knew nothing) but, it was still easier to hand her off to someone else to entertain. So he said, “let me introduce you to some of my cousins.” And that was how he guided her across the room to Ezio. “Ezio, this is Sofia. She’s one of Malik’s friends.”

Ezio smiled at her and Sofia’s entire body language shifted from friendly to challenging so quickly that it was hardly noticeable safe for how Ezio also changed from friendly to flirty in the way he did any time a woman tried to fight him. “It is my pleasure,” he assured her. 

Altair would have walked away before he was subjected to any of the flirting that was sure to happen but Leonardo invited himself into the small space shared between the three of them.

“Oh, Sofia. I didn’t know you’d arrived.” It was clear from the tone that he either had known or he knew why he hadn’t been told. Either way, Sofia’s arms crossed over her chest and her mouth flattened into an unimpressed line. “That’s quite a few important discoveries about my friends that I’ve made today.”

“Make them on your own,” Sofia answered back. She looked at Ezio, “it was nice to meet you.” Then she turned and excused herself right out of the conversation.

“Even for a gay man you’re terrible with women,” Altair said. Not because he wanted to pick at Leonardo but because truly he had never seen anyone repel a woman so entirely, so quickly as he’d just witnessed.

“Being observant is not the same as being intelligent,” Leonardo said. He narrowed his eyes at Altair, assessed him for worth and then smiled at whatever he found. “But maybe the minimum requirement has gotten lower since November.”

Ezio did not have a drink in his hand but his entire demeanor was that of a man who badly wanted to take a drink. He smiled in the disarming, vaguely charming way that he did when he apologized for his brother (or sister) in situations that required a certain level of decorum. Rather than make excuses or attempt to dissolve the situation, he said, “take it outside, Desmond’s future in-laws are watching.”

“I don’t need to take it outside,” Altair said (mostly to Leonardo). There was no need to say anything else because there was no need to talk to Leonardo at all. He simply turned around and walked away, across the room to where the staff was bringing out the food to assemble the buffet table. With his back turned to the rest of the room, he had a minute to close his eyes and breathe. A minute to remember that all the things in the time before Malik had come to find him in New York were things that were no betrayal to him. (And perhaps that it mattered more than Malik was with him _now_.) 

He opened his eyes again when someone put a hand on his back and he looked sideways expecting it to be Desmond. Malik was there instead, crowding close to his side. “Do you want to tell me?”

“No,” Altair answered. He put his arm around Malik, expecting to be pushed away, and was pleasantly shocked to be drawn closer into a hug. Malik’s hand pressed against the side of his neck and he tipped his head to kiss Altair. It was a sweet kiss but it wasn’t an innocent one. There was some ulterior motive that Altair had yet to work out (or just didn’t want to). Still he accepted it. “Just childishness. I’m fine,” he said. 

\--

> **Edward**
> 
> Dinner start yet?
> 
> No. Not sure why. But it’s being stalled
> 
> Run

The banquet room (really a very large dining room) had been set up in a mockery of the wedding tables for the next day. The only differences between now and the next day was the drabness of the table clothes, the lack of place cards and the fact that they were inside. Still, the round tables were arranged around the room and there was a long buffet table full of delicious smelling food that was attracting eager-and-hungry folks that most likely didn’t understand why they couldn’t eat. 

Lucy was leaning against his chest, “but _why_ is there such a stupid rule about eating?”

“I think it was Grandmother’s rule. I don’t know why but if you weren’t at the table to eat when they served dinner you didn’t get any. Or breakfast or lunch. Or anything.”

“That’s a stupid rule and it doesn’t even hold true at his house, or ours so why are we doing it now?” Lucy was snarling at the table of food for existing and smelling so very tempting. Desmond tightened his arms around her and leaned down to whisper in her ear.

“Because that’s the way it’s done. We have to observe tradition.” But they were saved in the next instant by the doors opening. Edward was pink-faced (with exertion) and carrying Haytham, smiling at all the faces that turned to look at him. At his side wasn’t one of the people that he’d brought along as guests, but Federico was also carrying his son. They both stopped and grinned at one another (clearly a race had ensued on the path here) before agreeably setting their children down. Cristina, Mary, Anne, Jenny and Adéwalé filed into the room behind them. 

“Now can we eat?” Lucy asked.

Federico closed the door and an almost audible sigh went through the room (at least among the cousins and family that knew why they were waiting) before everyone began to line up at the buffet table. Mrs. Finch was at the head of the line, with Altair at her side answering her questions about what each food was and how it was made. The others crowded up close behind them, bumping together in their haste to get to the food.

Desmond watched them while Lucy grumbled. There was no point in moving until the line thinned out so they stayed where they were, tucked up against a wall no so far from the herd of hungry people. 

Federico and Cristina walked over (but left Vincenzio with Haytham who seemed very pleased to have someone smaller than himself). “Sorry we’re late,” Federico said.

“Congratulations!” Cristina said. “We were really honored to get an invitation.” The fact that she was so sincere made Desmond sad in a strange (but vindictively pleasing) way. “There’s a lot of people here.”

“But not as many as there will be later,” Lucy added. “There’s a whole army coming for the bachelor party. Enough that there’s going to be a full security staff.” Then she pulled away. “A spot opened, I’m going for food.”

“Me too,” Cristina said. And she looked almost embarrassed to have invited herself along before Lucy motioned her to follow. 

That left Federico standing awkwardly next to him. “Is there a bet going?”

Desmond sighed. “There’s always a bet. I don’t know why when nobody ever gets any money in the end.” But also, “who are you betting on?”

That made Federico smile (oh so viciously), “fifty on your wife. No way she makes it through tomorrow without punching one of my parents.” The most notable thing about Federico was tied up in the notion that he would simultaneously kill for and do nothing to protect his family depending on which member was under threat and what circumstance lead to the danger. Some part of him must have loved his parents, but whatever stake he had in this imagined fight, the expression on his face betrayed how little he cared about their well-being. “Who is the favorite though?”

“Altair,” Desmond said. He pointed across the room to where Altair had reached the end of the buffet table and already helped Mrs. Finch back to her table. Every little part of his body seemed to have gone rigid with annoyance and the flat anger on his face was noticeable even at a great distance. 

“Of course.” Then Federico was interrupted by Vincenzio screaming his name across the room (apparently aware very suddenly that his parents were missing) and so he excused himself to go and get the boy.

Desmond added himself to the dwindling line to get food.

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> I have been led to my room and told that you are unavailable.
> 
> A polite man told me that I would have to wait until the close of dinner so I ask, naturally, why I cannot join.
> 
> It is not permitted.
> 
> That’s the answer I got.
> 
> We’re in the banquet room. Text me when you’re here I’ll open the door
> 
> I’ve been detected. 

Altair excused himself from the table. Mrs. Finch looked at him with some worry but Malik and Mr. Finch didn’t seem to care (too much) about it. It was a stupid thing to get caught up on, but standing in front of the closed door of the banquet hall caught in his chest. It wasn’t disrespect (exactly) because the only woman that would have protested his departure had been dead for over a decade at this point. It wasn’t even rebellion because he had no particular dislike or hatred for the rule. 

It was a choice.

It was only a choice, one of hundreds and thousands that he’d made on his own, and it should have been no more significant than buying his own clothes or making his own breakfast and yet it felt more final as he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway where a man in a staff-member-suit was arguing with Maria about whether or not she was allowed. 

“It’s okay,” Altair called. “She can come.”

Maria smirked in the man’s face and walked down the hallway with a sway to her steps that seemed like a constant assault against the man who was only doing his job. When she got to him, she put her hands on her hips and looked up at him. “And why, exactly, would I not be permitted to join you?”

“It’s the rule,” Altair said. Then he motioned for her to go in through the door. “The food is still hot. Help yourself.”

The whole family was looking at them. The expressions ran from scandalized (oddly, Claudia who had never liked the rule and often protested it), to mildly confused (Ezio, perpetually) and landed somewhere around neutral (Federico) and accepting (Desmond) and finally reached a level of victorious agreement (Edward). Altair put his hand on Maria’s back and motioned to the table, “I’ll go with you.”

“Of course you will,” Maria hissed at him, “you seem to have turned me into some sort of event.” They bickered about food at the table until they got to the end where the silverware was arranged and Maria paused long enough to really look at him. “You don’t look good. What’s happened?”

“Have you ever—thought you were very sure of something and no matter how much you believe it in your head, you still have a feeling that you can’t get rid of?” That was a terrible explanation of how he felt about Leonardo, about how the stupid man’s constantly smiling face undermined everything that Altair believed about Malik. It didn’t help that he _knew_ that it was nothing, that all of the antagonism came from Leonardo and his own spite and jealousy. It all ended the same, with the miserable doubt that festered like a sore. A constant bone of contention that he couldn’t force himself to give up. 

Maria looked over her shoulder and found Leonardo after only a second of looking, then she turned back to glance at him. “I believe that Malik loves you. I believe that you have to give him this chance, while he is here to witness, to prove it to you.”

“What if he doesn’t?” Altair asked. “What if he does what he always does?”

There again, Maria looked over at the tables, at Malik who was feigning interest in Mrs. Finch while side-eyed-staring at Maria and him. Her smile was soft. “I don’t think he will, Altair. It was different before.”

“Unless I break his face again,” Altair said. It had crossed his mind (once or twice) every time he caught Leonardo glaring at him. Just an echo of that same violence and the satisfying wet sound to accompany the red smear on his fists. 

“You won’t. Trust Malik, keep your hands to yourself,” Maria said. “And carry my plate for me. It’s hot on the bottom.” Then she shooed him toward the table he was sitting at and took a seat between him and Mrs. Finch.


	72. Chapter 72

> **Lucy**
> 
> I was just kidnapped by an academy award winning actress acting under your supervision.
> 
> I have no idea what you’re talking about
> 
> I didn’t get to say good bye to Desmond.
> 
> You’ll see him tomorrow
> 
> I wanted to see him tonight.
> 
> That’s not going to happen
> 
> I promise I’ll take care of him until then
> 
> I know every mark I left on his body so there better not be any new ones when I strip him naked tomorrow.
> 
> I will find you.
> 
> No fighting.
> 
> I won’t fight Desmond
> 
> Don’t fight anyone. Please. Try.
> 
> I am.

Altair was caught between making sure everyone had found their appropriate places to rest before the party, attending to the minor crises of the security staff that had shown up to man the bachelor party, answering stupid questions from the people parking cars (and hiding keys) and trying to keep track of a sense of peace. Ezio had graciously taken over converting the rather boring ball room into a less than boring bachelor party. He was halfway through with texting Lucy back, on his way to find Desmond, still trying to hide from the men that he hired to do a job they seemed incapable of doing without a great deal of handholding, when he ran (almost literally) into Kadar who was wandering around the upstairs hallway. They only just barely avoided colliding; Kadar pushed both hands against Altair’s chest and Altair found a convenient wall to fall back into as gracelessly as possible. 

“Sorry,” Kadar said. “I lost my room. And Sofia.”

Altair tucked his phone away. “I’ll show you.” He tried to make the words sound as patient as possible but they still came out with a huff of the same aggravation that had been building up since dinner. “Sofia’s room is two doors to the left of yours.”

Kadar followed him silently but he hovered at the doorway of his room. 

“What?” Altair asked. 

“Look, I know that Leonardo can be a dick. I know that he is _being_ a dick. I’m not telling you not to be offended and not to be angry about that. But—maybe let Malik handle it? Whatever is happening—and I don’t know what is—it’s not you. Don’t let them drag you into it.” Kadar seemed aware, even as he was saying the words, that he was asking for more than any mortal person could conceivably be expected to do.

Altair looked sideways because it seemed like his face was stuck in a scowl that he couldn’t contain. “Yeah, well—forgive my lack of faith that your brother is going to do anything about it. I don’t care about Leonardo,” Altair said. He did look back at Kadar then, in time to see him cock his eyebrows up in disbelief, “not tonight. This is Desmond’s wedding. The bastard can wait.” Then he motioned toward the stairs. “Have a good night, Kadar. If you need anything go to the kitchen, there should be someone there all night.”

“Thanks. Have fun.”

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> Fuck yes!
> 
> I’m at a strip club!
> 
> Did they also give you money to throw at the naked men?
> 
> Yes they did. They gave everyone twenty bucks in ones. I think I got more than that.
> 
> I get all the beer I can drink. Maria is going to stay sober to protect me.
> 
> Altair has turned the ballroom into a bar.
> 
> There’s a DJ but also a band
> 
> A band? Of course there is.
> 
> Have fun. Behave irresponsibly.
> 
> You too

Desmond did not have many friends. He wasn’t sure if he suffered from a true shortage, a general disinterest or an inability to engage meaningfully in social situations. There were very few people that he would help move furniture (for free) and even less that knew anything worthwhile or genuine about him. The people that did know him well enough that he considered them friends were, in fact, almost entirely family or would very shortly become family (just as soon as he finished marrying Lucy). So while he didn’t expect there to be enough people interested in his life to fill an entire ballroom with a decent crowd, he also should not have been surprised by it. 

Altair had told him that he was employing an ‘invite yourself and up to three others’ policy in regards to the bachelor party if only because ‘small parties were boring parties’. 

“You know,” Federico said when he found him in the middle of the crowd that was milling around waiting for the music and the fun to start, “this is one of the most clever things he’s ever thought up.”

“Whys that?” Desmond asked. There didn’t seem to be anything precise or clever in creating a bar in Grandmother’s house. The lights, the music and the immense amount of people seemed a great deal like a blunt weapon; no thought required.

“Well, you don’t like attention. This is simultaneously all about you and not about you at all. You are as anonymous as these people, but when my parents get here tomorrow, you’ll have a full crowd of people occupying your wedding. There’s safety in numbers.” Federico made a soft noise. “Congratulations, Desmond. Really.”

“Thanks,” Desmond said. “Are you drinking?”

“No,” Federico said. “Edward is though,” he pointed across the room to where Edward was at the bar talking to the cute lady bartender. “So he can keep Ezio company. He’s a dumb drunk too.”

Desmond snorted at that. “Hey,” he said when Federico started to walk away. “Look, I know it’s against your—whatever—but don’t let Altair fight anyone tonight? If you see him, stop him. Please?”

For a moment, it seemed as if Federico was going to tell him no but he nodded his head. “I don’t think it’ll come to that but sure, for you. A wedding gift.” 

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> Are you drinking too?
> 
> Not currently

“He doesn’t dance,” Edward said. There was a red blush on his tanned face, that spread to his neck at the end of a long-long laugh. His fingers were clutched around the now empty glass that he’d carried over to the small corner of surprisingly nice chairs that occupied the far corner of the room. Malik had found his way there after the music started and the multitude of strangers that he’d done a well enough job avoiding started dancing. The bachelor portion of Desmond’s party didn’t seem to necessarily mean that no men were invited. (In fact, there were quite a few women mixed in as well.) Edward pointed his finger at Federico like he was emphasizing his point. “Dancing would make him gay.”

Federico (who was drinking water) rolled his eyes at that sentiment but he didn’t dispute it. 

Adewale (who had, up to that point, said nothing at all) burst into laughter so deep that it seemed to shake the chair he was sitting on. Edward reached over to slap his hand against the back of Adewale’s arm and the two of them devolved into another round of laughter. 

“I don’t dance either,” Malik said to Federico.

Rather than a smartass answer that Malik expected, Federico seemed quietly surprised. “Word of advice about that, the baby likes to dance. Not like this,” he motioned at the twisting motion of the crowd, “but he does like to dance.”

“I need another drink,” Edward said. He got up and Adewale followed after him without bothering with the formality of excusing himself. When they were gone, the corner stagnated and went chilly with silence. 

“Hey,” Federico said (far too quiet for a room so loud). His voice was a distant distraction trying to pull Malik away from watching Altair talking to Ezio across the room. In person, up close, Ezio was disgustingly attractive and from a distance, obscured by a crowd, he lost some of the majesty that closeness provided him. 

It was easy enough, though, even from so far away, to tell they were amused by their conversation. It was easy enough to see the humor in Altair’s whole body, the way he leaned closer to hear whatever Ezio was saying and the delight that Ezio had in telling whatever story he was sharing. “What?” Malik asked.

“Am I going to have to get rid of the artist?” 

When Malik turned around to look at him, Federico looked simultaneously the picture of perfect innocence and the sort of man that took a hammer to a man who had hurt his brother. The aggressive protection settled in his bunched shoulders but the innocence covered his haggard bull-dog face. “To answer that question, I would need some clarification.”

“I mean, he seems like a rational guy. Ezio thinks the sun shines out of his ass and that’s fine. It’s not the first time that he’s lost it over someone. The artist seems harmless because he’s not interested in anything more than fucking. Except I heard that’s what happened with you.”

Then Malik sighed. “You want to know if Leonardo’s fucking your brother to get at Altair?”

“Yes, and also if he’s going to become a problem for Ezio the way he is for you.”

Well there was no telling the future. There was simply no way that Malik could have predicted that one day Leonardo was going to decide that he was in love and that he had the desperate need to possess Malik. Before the accident, it would have been the sort of idea that made him laugh. (Now it seemed absurd.) “Leonardo wanted to have sex with Ezio before he knew about Altair. If he was doing this to use it against Altair he would have done it by now. And no, I don’t think he will.”

“Good,” Federico said. “I’m going to get some more water.”

\--

> **Mother**
> 
> I think your brother will manage just fine.
> 
> But do you think he’s mean enough to really fight Leonardo
> 
> Because it’s established that Leonardo is mean
> 
> It is not meanness to stand up for yourself and your loved ones.
> 
> But he is mean enough to handle Leonardo if its required.

Kadar found Sofia because she was something familiar in the lonely anonymity of the massive house. She was sitting on the bed in her room, wearing her pajamas with her hair in braids, moving her lips along with the words she was reading. When he’d interrupted her, she had invited him to lay in the bed next to her and stroked his hair while they talked about high-school-English and how little Kadar cared about the theme of any book he’d ever read.

“It doesn’t seem useful to me,” he said at last. His phone had gone silent after Mother’s last message. The worry that had been nagging at him since the middle of the day (just about the time he’d become aware that there was a feud brewing) was severe in the quiet of the room. “Do you think Leonardo really loved him?” It was an idea that Kadar had never questioned. The memory of Leonardo crying on the balcony (despondent and desperate for comfort) had cemented the idea that he loved Malik. The return had seemed true now-and-then but never so surely or so completely as Leonardo’s love for Malik.

Sofia sighed. “I think,” she said (very slowly), “that Leonardo loves him the same way he loves me. I don’t think he was ever _in love_ with Malik.” She laughed (so soft and so gently), “after the accident, Leonardo told me that he couldn’t see Malik anymore. He said that no matter how he looked at him, no matter how he tried to remember him any other way, he could only remember him covered in blood.” Then the way her fingers stroking through Kadar’s hair shifted. It was thoughtful, not comforting. “I think Leonardo is _wounded_. I think Malik is an excuse.”

“Wounded how?”

“The same way we were all wounded by the accident. Some of us have acknowledged our wounds and moved on. But—maybe Leonardo is still stuck in the car, in a way. Maybe he’s still trying to stop the bleeding. It must be hell for him to know that Malik has left him behind. To know that he’s alone.”

Kadar tipped his head back to look up at Sofia. “Would he know? Leonardo is the smartest person I’ve ever met—wouldn’t he know?”

“You are the most gentle and considerate of any man I have ever met. You are a genuinely sincere person. One that puts a great deal more thought into the welfare of others than any man I’ve ever met, much less one as young. Why didn’t you know?” The question was pointed but gentle, a prod to think-it-through rather than a reproach. 

“Malik is going to hurt him,” Kadar said softly. It was simply inevitable. 

“I know.” Then she picked up her book again. “Do you want me to read to you?” He nodded his head (for lack of anything better to do) and she began reading wherever she’d left off.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> I got a lap dance.
> 
> You need to learn this skill.
> 
> Not likely
> 
> I’m hiding behind a bar
> 
> This way all the drunk people can congratulate me
> 
> and leave me tips
> 
> Y ou cant bartendyo ur ow npar ty. Oh my god. Where isy our cousin
> 
> I’m call him and telling to sto pyou
> 
> You can try

Edward was a cheerful, uncoordinated drunk. He was downright magnanimous. They hadn’t had the time to be friends when they were children; the brief time that they’d ever had to interact had mostly revolved around Edward doing something that would get him removed from the house and Desmond hiding in the gardens. 

“…its not a _boat_ , mate. Even my ten—eleven? Ade! How old is Jennifer? Ade? Well were the devil did he go?” Edward was turning his head back and forth again and again, searching for his companion (who had left some time ago) before nearly falling off the barstool and only barely catching himself by clutching the top of the bar. He laughed (bawdy and loud). “Even the boy knows it’s a ship. It’s not a boat.”

Desmond had abandoned actually making drinks in favor of listening to Edward’s drunken rambling about the various sort of trouble he had gotten himself into during his travels. (Desmond’s personal favorite, thus far, was the story of Mary Read who may or may not have been a man at some point. It was too confusing to decipher.) “How much have you had to drink?”

“Not as much as you would think,” Edward said. He looked oh so sweet when he said it. His hair had been pulled loose from the ponytail he usually kept it in (mostly by his own uncoordinated flailing) and it was hanging around his face in little clumps and wisps. “I quit drinking a decade ago—maybe. Was it a decade? I have no tolerance for the stuff now. Shameful, isn’t it? The Auditore’s would hang me for it.” His smile was crooked, almost boyish with glee. “Never figured,” Edward said (like he was only just now starting to talk at all), “that it’d be you and _Federico_ that got married. Never figured on _that one_. Should’ve.”

“It doesn’t surprise me that Federico got married,” Desmond said. When the bartender (a lovely woman named Tatia) came to offer Edward something else to drink, Desmond waved her away and gave the poor drunk bastard water instead. “Surprised me he married Ezio’s ex-girlfriend but not that he got married.”

Edward laughed at that. “Now _that_ don’t surprise me. He likes to keep it in the family, you know.” Then Edward’s face got a pinched look all in the middle. He cleared his throat. “I think I’m drunk.”

“You are.”

Then Edward rubbed his hands across his face. “I hate this house,” he said like he didn’t know he was saying it out loud. He might have said something else but Federico stepped up to the bar with a fresh sheen of sweat on his face (possibly from having his brother drag him onto the dance floor) and a sparkle of what looked like glitter caught in his hair. Edward’s entire concentration was drawn to the sparkle and his hand (as drunk as his red face) reached up to rub at the glitter caught on Federico’s cheek. 

“I lost the baby, have you seen him?”

Desmond looked out into the crowd. “Um, he was hanging out near the stage but then the DJ took over I haven’t seen him since.” He might have said more (or even looked around for Altair) except that Edward had gone from trying to smear the glitter off Federico’s face to cupping his hand around his cheek while his thumb traced the underside of his mouth. Federico (rather than punching him immediately) was only looking at Edward with a faint disapproval before shifting his eyes to the side to look at Desmond without moving his face.

“What secrets have you been telling, Edward?”

“Nothing,” Desmond said before any drama could start. (But now he was left wondering what ‘he likes to keep it in the family’ meant exactly.)

Edward didn’t move his hand off Federico’s face. Rather than move (or quit, or notice he was being glared at) he smiled (stupidly), “you have the best lips,” as he licked his own lips with more intent than was appropriate to direct at your cousin. At which point Federico shoved him backward off the stool and Edward toppled over with a clatter of noise loud enough to draw the attention of everyone close-by. Adewale (who had been pulled into a conversation) came back to help drag Edward up off the ground. “See you’re still a pissy bitch.”

Federico spared him a withering glance. “Keep your hands to yourself. Yeah? Go back to your doghouse and sleep it off.” Edward looked like he was going to protest something but Adewale pulled him away. When he was gone, Federico said, “don’t tell Ezio.” Like Desmond knew something he wasn’t supposed to. Then he immediately went back to the previous conversation with, “I haven’t seen the baby in over an hour, he could be anywhere.”

“Fuck,” Desmond muttered. “What about Leonardo?”

“Ezio said he hasn’t seen him in at least ten.” (Which judging by the grimness of Federico’s expression and the seriousness of his tone, was more than enough time to murder someone with your bare hands.)

Desmond said, “fuck,” again and then went around the bar to get out. “I’ll go check outside. Keep looking in here?”

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> How did Desmond attract Lucy?
> 
> His face, I heard

It wasn’t that Altair hadn’t _tried_ to avoid Leonardo because he _had_. He had done circles around the room, making quick friends with people he didn’t know. They were torn between appreciation for his home, wonder at his extravagant wealth and disapproval at his music choices. 

But it was Leonardo at the bar (before Desmond had gone to hide behind it), saying, “I thought you’d given up drinking.” But carrying on with, “considering how tenuous your grip on self-control is when dry.”

It was a stupid choice but Altair tipped up a glass and drained it to the bottom while staring at Leonardo the entire time. The bartender looked slightly horrified (and it tasted something like vodka) when he slapped the glass back on the bar. “Always nice to chat with you,” he said before he left.

Then it was Leonardo, out in the crowd, standing with a clutch of other men that Altair didn’t recognize (friends of friends, maybe) and they were laughing along with him, saying something like, “a house this big has to compensate for something.”

There was no mistaking the exact moment that Leonardo saw him because brilliant, vicious _glee_ spread across his face like a cruel, cool grin. He said, “likely an attempt to mask a deep-seated insecurity and a desperate lack of maturity. Anyone that grows up in a house like this has a less than ten percent chance of attaining any true adulthood.” Oh-and-everyone _laughed_ their agreement.

Altair went to find Ezio because things were easy to forget whenever he had Ezio to distract him with his constant good-humor. He found him by the DJ, listing songs he wanted to have played and laughing with the young woman that had come along to assist the DJ (Altair actually had no idea what she did). 

“Altair!” Ezio said with one arm thrown around his shoulders to drag him downward. “I have been looking for you. I haven’t,” he corrected (confidentially), “your boyfriend has. He seemed worried he couldn’t locate you.”

And Altair just heaved a sigh. “I’ll go find him in a minute. I need a drink.”

There might have been an actual attempt to go to the bar and retrieve a drink but Leonardo slithered through the crowd and slid his hands around Ezio’s ribs, up against his chest and leaned forward to rest his chin on his shoulder. The genuine, happy smile that Ezio had when he half turned to look at Leonardo was as much an insult as the smirking-offensive glare that Leonardo was offering him. Ezio’s happiness was real, Leonardo’s affection was _faked_ (at least for that moment). “I thought you’d like some worthwhile company,” Leonardo said. 

Altair walked away. He was halfway to the big-glass doors that led outside when he passed a waiter that was carrying a bottle of liquor. He took it from her and then smiled at her when she half-turned to complain at him about the theft. “My house,” he said, “my alcohol.” Then he kept walking.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Has your brother texted you?
> 
> I have lost him and Altair
> 
> Do you still know where Leonardo is?
> 
> I don’t think you have to worry until you lose Leonardo.
> 
> Also nowhere to be found
> 
> I’ll try calling him

Desmond was trying to scan a crowd of constantly moving bodies. It was a less than ideal (but sadly predictable) outcome for a bachelor party. He would have been just as happy to stay in his room the whole night ignoring the stupidity that was likely happening without him. Yet, he was working his way around the room, going from table to table asking if anyone had seen people he could only describe in the vaguest of details. He was very close to pulling setting off a fire alarm to evacuate the room when he happened across Federico all bristling-and-stiff, puffed up like a gorilla pounding his chest, standing a foot and a half away from murdering Leonardo.

“That’s one,” Desmond said. It was an inoffensive way of inserting himself into what seemed to be a tense confrontation. Federico was _sober_ and that might have been the only factor saving Leonardo’s life at the moment (that and the fact that Federico was the number one loser of the bet regarding who would start a fight first, a streak he was resolved to break). “No chance you know where—”

Federico looked at him with murder cut into all the lines of his face. He spoke in Italian, too low and too bitter to be understood. He strode toward the large doors that led outside with more intent than anyone with any understanding of the Auditore family should be comfortable with but Leonardo looked smug-not-frightened.

Desmond didn’t believe in violence and he didn’t believe in vengeance. He liked to think all problems could be resolved without either. So there was no accounting for the frustration that was stuck in his gut when he looked at Leonardo or the words that blurted straight from his mouth with no attempt on the part of his brain to stop them. “For a smart guy you’re absolute a stupid shit,” Desmond said. He just shook his head and turned around to walk away.

Leonardo said, “For a victim of abuse, you are oddly willing to condone, enable or ignore a variety of abusive behavior: everything from outright physical violence to intimidation is apparently acceptable if meted out at appropriate intervals by people you approve of against people you don’t. How do you settle your conscience? Maybe you don’t have to, maybe it’s not a problem now that you’re on the other side. I had asked your cousin but I get the feeling he doesn—”

“Shut up,” Desmond said. There was something shaking on the inside of his chest. That same old wound that he hadn’t ever had the time to heal. This stupid house (all around him) like a yawning shadow driving home every single word that Leonardo said. The intellectual part of his brain was aware it was all an attempt to evoke a response but his body was already filling up with the need to _get away_ from the noise and the witnesses. More offensive than the blindly hateful words was the belligerence with which they were spoken. 

“What happened?” That was Malik, striding up from the open doorway that led outside. He looked angrier (in that moment) than any man that Desmond had ever had the displeasure of seeing filled up with rage. His voice that was normally reserved and peaceful was filled with spite, taking up a grand deal of space in the already crowded hall of voices. Malik looked at him once and then over at Leonardo, at the stagnant satisfaction on his face. 

“I’m making friends,” Leonardo said, “asking questions that need answers.”

“Are you?” Malik demanded (quick-quick words). He swallowed after the words and tipped his head without looking away from Leonardo at all. His hand rose in the air to gesture at nothing. “Because from where I am standing it seems that you are just being an asshole.”

“Then get off the pedestal that you’ve climbed on.”

“I’m not on a pedestal,” Malik snapped at him. “I’m not better than anyone. Except _you_ , right now. Because _I_ was raised with enough manners to know better than to interrupt someone’s party with my own petty bullshit.”

Leonardo’s laugh was low-and-dark-and-throaty. He leaned forward with his hands in his pockets and all lean-elegant-meanness in his face. “What _have_ you been drinking, Malik? Do you think your Mother would be _proud_ of what you are right now?”

Desmond did not know Malik _well_ , not with any certainty of things that would hurt him or things that were inappropriate to say to him. He knew a certain level of surface information and a variety of odd facts that Altair had given him over the years about Sass. Standing three-foot to the side of him when those words were uttered, watching how his hand (formerly gesturing broadly) dropped to the side and his whole body straightened to a knife point of hostility so overwhelming it went _cold_ , it seemed that everything he ever needed to know about the man.

“She raise you to let some man slap you around? To be a rich man’s bitch?” Leonardo demanded. “ _Why him_ because that’s what I can’t seem to understand. You could have had anyone! And you chose that arrogant bastard!”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Go find Leonardo.
> 
> Apparently, Altair is missing.
> 
> I know
> 
> Look, go find Leonardo before Altair does.
> 
> Fine
> 
> He’s your problem, Malik. Stop letting him be everyone else’s.
> 
> Fix it.

Malik had been standing outside where the air was a cool, blissful, sweet-smelling relief from the crush of overheated bodies inside the ballroom. The quiet of the darkness gave him space-and-time to sort out the things washing around his brain. Drinking had been a poor choice but it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time he was offered the brightly-colored drink. 

Standing in front of Leonardo now with anger like bricks in his fist and his gut and a burning-poison on his tongue, drinking that fruit-flavored liquor seemed like it was the worst possible choice. Fully sober, Malik would have held his tongue and excused himself, but fifty-percent wasted (approximately, maybe, it was hard to tell when he’d never been drunk before) it seemed like three foot from the man that was getting married tomorrow was the perfect place and the bachelor party the perfect time to _finish_ this fight that had been building-and-building for a year.

“There is no alternative timeline, there is no other universe, there is no _conceivable_ version of our lives that would end with me choosing _you_ ,” Malik said. Every word was perfectly cold, each of them measured to the beat of the anger in his chest. Each of them timed to deliver the most severe blow to Leonardo. And the hurt that cracked the belligerent façade of his face was more satisfying to Malik than any second hand vengeance he’d ever enjoyed. 

“Hey!” was Altair’s shout to the side. His gorilla-cousin with the ruddy face and the murderer’s eyes was not so far behind him, looking pleased-as-punch about everything. “What the fuck are you doing?” Altair shouted at Leonardo. His face was pink with liquor and his hands were coiled up like hammers.

Desmond looked _exasperated_ in the few brief seconds before he looked genuinely frightened. He glanced at Federico, waiting a few steps back, and with his attention diverted was shocked into jumping when Malik’s hand slapped against Altair’s chest to stop him on his route to Leonardo.

“What?” Altair demanded.

“No,” Malik said to him. He said the world with absolute clarity. Then, when he was sure that Altair had stalled out (with his eyebrows all caught up in confusion) he moved his hand away and grabbed Leonardo by the wrist to drag him out of the room and away from the gathering spectators. They went _inward_ into the back halls of the house and not outside with the open air and the infinite windows. 

Altair followed after like a dog, blind with loyalty.

Out in the hallway, Leonardo shoved both hands against Malik’s shoulders and knocked him back into a wall. “I wish I didn’t love you!” he shouted at him. “I wish I had never fucking _met you_. Any universe where you are an unhappy footnote to my life is preferable to this one!” He gestured sideways at Altair. “Look at fucking prince charming, your slobbering drunk attack dog!”

Malik hit him. Because the words _hurt_ , because he didn’t want to be shoved around, because he couldn’t _stand_ the resigned-hurt that stuck in Altair’s face every-single-time Leonardo said anything. “You _don’t_ love me!” Malik’s voice was echoing back and forth off the walls. “You stupid, stupid man! You _never_ did. _We_ were fuck buddies. _We_ were convenient. We were never _in love_. You _never_ had me. You didn’t _lose_ anything!”

“You don’t know!” Leonardo’s whole face was red and his hands were shaking. “You don’t _know_ ,” he screamed again. “You don’t even know what love is!”

“ _Yes_ , I _do_!” Malik motioned across his body to Altair who looked stunned at the admission (that was a separate problem entirely) and then back into the space between them. “It’s not this.”

“But it was!”

“No it wasn’t!” Malik shouted again. “No, it _isn’t_. You’re a stupid child throwing a tantrum over a toy he never even wanted! You don’t even _care_ about _me_ , you just want your stupid toy back!” The door from the ballroom attempted to open but Altair slapped his hand against it and slammed it shut again before whoever was on the other side could make it through. He leaned his weight against it, all the focus in his drunken face was resting neatly on them and therefore none was devoted to whoever was shouting from the other side of the door. 

“I don’t want you to piss away your life on a worthless man that doesn’t deserve you. Was his dick so magical you forgot the things that he did to you? Have you forgotten the number of times you showed up at _my_ door looking for something that wouldn’t hurt you?”

Malik laughed (right in Leonardo’s stupid face). “Ten minutes ago, you spat in my face about how my Mother would be ashamed of me. If I can’t even secure the good opinion of my own mother, how could anyone be more worthless than I am?”

“That’s not wha—”

“Altair wasn’t there when I realized I wanted to fuck guys because I was twelve years old and I was _all by myself_. He wasn’t there when I tried to fast my way out of sin. He wasn’t there when I had to write essays weighing the likelihood that I could fake fucking women versus giving in to being gay. He wasn’t there when I had to talk myself out of suicide because _it seemed like a better option_ than _disappointing my mother_. You fucking _sanctimonious prick_! He _wasn’t_ there whenever I gave up _religion_ because I couldn’t reconcile my sexuality with my faith! He _didn’t_ get me drunk, he _didn’t_ make me fuck him.”

“He left you,” Leonardo spit at him, like one last grasp at a defense. “He mocked you—”

“ _And you haven’t_?” Malik shouted at him. “You _left_ me. You’ve been gone for _months_ , you’ve been gone since the accident. I woke up in that hospital and my best friend was _gone_. What I’ve got instead is _this_ pitiful, hateful _child_ throwing insults at people I care about because he didn’t get what he wanted. If there is _anyone_ that isn’t worthy of me, it’s _you_.” It shouldn’t have surprised him that his face was damp with sweat and his eyes were burning with tears. There was a clot of pain in his throat that was hard to breathe around.

Leonardo looked as if he had been punched in the gut, all out of breath. Stunned into stillness that was unnatural for him. 

“I am _not_ a _thing_ that you have ever or _will ever_ possess,” Malik said. “So stop.”

The door that Altair had been holding closed was abruptly shoved open. It seemed to be a combination of Altair’s quiet shock that dissipated his concentration from holding it closed and the combination of effort from the inside. Federico-and-Desmond and Ezio (ruddy-red with drunkenness) all fell through and only barely caught themselves. 

Leonardo was still just standing there (silent and hurt) when Malik reached his hand out toward Altair.

“Asshole,” Altair said over his shoulder. Both Ezio and Federico perked up like they were used to being addressed as such. He motioned at Leonardo in some universally understandable signal for ‘take care of this’. Then he took Malik’s hand and let himself be pulled toward the stairs that took them back up to the bedroom.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> What the fuck happened? Don’t tell me nothing Desmond Miles.
> 
> Maria is sober and she’s typing all this and she is making the face.
> 
> The those morons at the mansion did something stupid and can’t be trusted face.
> 
> There was a fight between Leonardo and Malik
> 
> Everything is fine
> 
> Maria who is typing this needs to know how to convince your future wife that you’re fine.
> 
> Tell her that I love her
> 
> Tell her that I’m safe
> 
> Then if that doesn’t work tell her Altair didn’t hurt anyone
> 
> That seems to have worked. She loves you too.
> 
> Is he talking to you, Maria?
> 
> Only to say that a fight had been had, he wasn’t involved and everything was good.
> 
> He seems good if that’s what you’re worried about.
> 
> From what I gather, Malik did the fighting.
> 
> About time.

Desmond did not stay at the party. Ezio went back after he finished delivering Leonardo wherever he needed to be taken. Federico went outside with his pack of cigarettes and sat at one of the round tables to smoke with the fine grace of a man who need the respite from the day. It was an image that was no so very far removed (at all) from Phyllis. 

The smarter choice would have been to go back into the house, to seek comfort in isolation and worry away the wound that had been rude opened. Instead, he went over and pulled out a seat to take up space next to the man who had once delighted in mocking and belittling him. There was _comfort_ in the space around Federico that shouldn’t have been possible considering their past. “What was it like for you? The night before your wedding?”

Federico snorted. He didn’t pick at the knee of his pants but the fidget of his fingertips made it seem like he wanted to. The red end of his cigarette was burning little gray wisps of smoke into the air while he thought about it. “I was waiting for my brother.”

“Yeah,” Desmond said. He shifted on the chair and looked out in the darkness, the uncertain shapes of the wedding preparations were just odd shadows caught in the fading glow of the external house lights. Without the floodlight, the whole yard was dark. “Why did you—uh, date Cristina?”

There again, Federico laughed. “Have you seen my face? I do not have the luxury of being choosy.” He seemed to be aware that was a bullshit answer (almost as much as he seemed to believe it was true) before he shrugged it off. “The things that I respect about Cristina are things that Ezio could never have seen in her. She is aware, constantly, of the weight of expectation and the relentlessness of our future. I do love my wife, even if it is not in the same way that Ezio might have. I am confident in her and I am happy in my marriage. But I didn’t choose her. She found me. She’s a beautiful woman. The fact that she was with my brother does not diminish that beauty and considering my failing morals on all matters—it didn’t even seem worthy of note. It might not even have lasted if she hadn’t gotten pregnant.”

“I love Lucy,” Desmond said. “I didn’t think I could, you know?”

When Federico looked over at him, there was something off-center about his face. The blithe indifference he manifested for so many years and the abrupt and constant distaste he held for Desmond had left by degrees. It hadn’t mutated (before) into the look of respect he had now. “Out of all of us, I think you are the one that I would say was truly capable of anything you set your mind to. Look at me,” he motioned at himself, “I didn’t escape my childhood. I didn’t overcome my family. I didn’t get my freedom.” He snorted at the very idea of it.

“You could,” Desmond said. 

Federico shrugged. He took a drag off the cigarette and then tapped the ash to the side. It seemed a small eternity before he blew the smoke out (away from Desmond) and even longer in the uncertain silence before he finally said. “I did a lot of awful things to you. You’re not the kind of guy who gets vengeance, I guess. But, in case I do it again or try, here’s something to protect you.” Federico pulled in a breath, when he let it out again it shivered-and-trembled, “I used to fuck Edward. Or, the other way around, I guess.” Federico smiled softly at his own hands. The glitter on his face and in his hair shimmered when it caught the light, cast enough glimmer on his face to highlight the resignation of the words. “My father would possibly kill me rather than have a faggot son.” Then he shrugged.

“But Ezio’s fucking Leonardo.”

“That’s _Ezio_. No rule applies to _Ezio_.” Of course it didn’t. It never had. Federico nodded again. “I’m going to bed. I’m too old for all these things anymore. Sleep, Desmond. Tomorrow you get to marry that beautiful woman. And if you are very lucky she will find an excuse to slap my Mother.”

Desmond laughed at that. He wasn’t sure about what he meant to say as Federico stood up but he said, “I won’t tell; you didn’t have to tell me. I don’t need something to protect me from you. I don’t want something to hold over your head so know that I won’t tell.”

Federico just nodded. “Good night, Desmond.”

\--

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> At this rate I’m going to need to hire a makeup artist
> 
> Why are you still awake?
> 
> I can’t sleep
> 
> I found out some things I didn’t know
> 
> I’m not drunk anymore either
> 
> That’s what you get for having a high metabolism.
> 
> Dear sweet Lucy has finally gone to sleep. 
> 
> I did not have much respect for her before, you know. But she is truly amazing.
> 
> I need a friend like her.
> 
> Well she’s available for friendship

Altair did not go looking for Leonardo. In fact, he did not go looking for anyone. After Malik fell asleep (at last), the room felt too small to work through all the things that were crowding around in his head. It had been easy enough to ignore before because Malik had dragged him to the room (shivering with anger) and forbidden any discussion of the matter with a sideways glance. They had worked their way around to laying in the bed (and Altair assumed they’d fuck because that’s what Malik did when he was upset) that lapsed into cuddling. Malik had fallen asleep with a half-mumbled, “I love you,” and his hand holding onto Altair’s. 

Leaving him wasn’t a wise choice but he’d left a note explaining he was only going for a snack in the kitchen. At three in the morning, the only staff that should be in the kitchen was whatever poor soul got elected to pass out simple snacks to still-drunk visitors. Altair didn’t go to the kitchen but to the front of the house, to sit on the massive steps the way he had the entirety of his childhood. There was a step four down from the top on the side of his Grandmother’s bedroom that should have been worn in with the imprint of his body. 

He hadn’t expected to find Leonardo sitting on the first landing with his back to the railing and a sketchbook propped up against his bent knees. There was a litter of pencils all around his sides, stretched out in arms reach, separated by some undefined order. Leonardo looked up whenever Altair’s footsteps disturbed him and his gloomy non-expression morphed into a sad but unsurprised smile. He motioned at the steps to his side. 

Altair sat. “We aren’t doing a good job being civil for his sake.”

Leonardo didn’t even laugh but nodded his head. “He’s not wrong. I never loved him the way you do. I never will. I do love him; it used to be an unselfish love. The way you’d love a brother or the way you might love Desmond. My desire to protect him never had anything to do with you. It was always trying to undo the damage he had done to himself.” Then Leonardo let out a soft sigh of noise. He flipped the pages on the sketchbook back to the beginning. “He could explain every destructive thing he has ever done to himself to you, in crystal detail and it will never match the reality of watching him tear himself apart. You’ll never know the relief of the moment his Mother loved him regardless. You’ll never know what he was like when he was falling in love with you. Oh,” Leonardo said with a smile cut across his face, “he didn’t want to. He fought you so hard.” Then he turned the sketch book and slapped it on the ground just in front of Altair’s feet. 

The page was gray-and-black, a wash of blood in shadows. The hellish backseat of a car bent out of shape by a tragedy. Malik’s face in perfect detail with an impact splatter of bleeding-cuts and abrasions. 

“I want it out of my head. It doesn’t matter what I do, I can’t get _out_ of that car. I can’t _forget_ the smell of the impact, the sound of the metal—I can’t forget how cold it was that night. I can’t forget how hot Malik’s blood. Everything smelled like iron. I had my fingers on his heartbeat, I _felt_ him dying and there was nothing I could do.” Leonardo tipped his head back to press it against the bannister. “I’m stuck in an infinite loop, caught in that moment I knew he was going to die.”

“He didn’t,” Altair said. He leaned forward and picked up the sketchbook, spared a glance to be sure he was allowed and flipped through the pages that followed after. Over-and-over-and-over again the same picture of Malik in the car. And ones that followed after, little close ups of his face that must have been in the days and weeks after. A whole time-lapse of his recovery broken again and again with the first picture in various sizes and detail sketched into the corners. “All of this,” Altair said, “was because you can’t let go?”

“There are moments when I am fully lucid. The moments when he talks to me and I think that I can remember how it used to be; those moments when I am the friend that he remembers and I am solely invested in providing him with the love and support that I feel I promised him.” Another sigh. “But you are an insult to my injury. You are what he wanted, more than he wanted me, in those long days and weeks after. You are what brought back his smile; some great conspiracy that happened without my knowing. I _despise_ that you, in absentia, had a greater, more positive effect than I could standing at his side.”

That much was, at least, understandable. 

“When I am lucid, when I am myself, I can acknowledge that you are a powerful, important, necessary force in his life. I can understand that you love him in a way that I never could; in a way that exhausts me to think about. I can remember he chose you. That’s enough.” But then he shrugged, “but I am not often lucid anymore. I cannot see him without seeing—all that.” He motioned at the book. “If I let go, I have to feel it. I have to feel the enormity of fear, hurt and the unanswered unfairness of it. It’s far larger than I am.”

“Well,” Altair said. “At some point, you have to weigh the damage that you’ve already caused to yourself and others against the damage facing this will cause you. I don’t know him as well as you, but even I know, there is a moment at which he won’t let you explain. Once you’ve passed that moment, you will be alone and this will be the only memory you have of him. So, stop being an asshole and a coward. If you have the balls to talk your way into getting your face broken, you should have the balls to talk your way through this.” Then he handed the sketchbook back.

“You didn’t want to break my face,” Leonardo said. “You would have killed me.”

“I could have,” Altair conceded. “I didn’t _want_ to. If I wanted to, you’d be dead.” Then he nodded his head and stood up again. “He misses you, if that helps motivate you.”

Leonardo shrugged. “Go to sleep. You have a wedding tomorrow.”

Altair went back to his room, found Malik still sleeping and crawled back into bed next to him. The even in-out of Malik’s breath, the shape and warmth of him in bed at his side, all lulled him to sleep. Just before, he said, “I love you.” And he thought he might as well say, “maybe you should forgive him.”

Malik drew a breath in through his nose. “maybe I would if he wanted me to,” like he was only just awake enough to form the words. He rolled onto his side and pulled at Altair’s arm until he could curl his fingers around Altair’s hand. “Sleep.”

“You too.” And he squeezed his fingers just briefly. Malik squeezed back in the last moments before Altair fell asleep.


	73. Chapter 73

> **Claudia**
> 
> You should come have breakfast with me and the other ladies.
> 
> I believe that invitation was extended to vaginas only
> 
> I’ll give you an honorary vagina.
> 
> I am hungover and I do not have the patience or focus to pretend to interact with these annoying twats.
> 
> What will I do to help you with that?
> 
> You’re precious. They won’t bother you.
> 
> Or me, if I am next to you.
> 
> Fine, where are you?

Kadar had agreed to ‘go to breakfast’ with the understanding that he would go eat somewhere with Claudia and the other ladies that survived the night before. He had not realized when he got dressed (in the clothes she picked out for him the day before) that he would be taken from the mansion and transported to a restaurant that was crowded full of half-awake hungover women with bedhead all talking at once. There was a great deal of women that had a disastrous resemblance to Lucy that were chatting among themselves and then there was a cluster of people that must have known one another because they were all sitting next to one another groaning over their headaches. Lucy was sitting in the approximate center of the noise, rubbing her thumbs against her temples. Her face looked positively green in a way that only very pale people could ever manage. 

Claudia was sitting to the left of Lucy with a chair saved by the grace of her purse. While Lucy looked like she would puke with very little prompting, Claudia looked as if she were contemplating picking up the butter knife by her plate and using it to eviscerate the entire party. It was only Maria, picture perfect, that seemed to have survived the ordeal without damage. “Thank God you have arrived,” Claudia said. Then she turned to the side, “Lucy,” she said very softly.

Lucy turned her head (all sluggish and pained) and grimaced at Claudia and Kadar both. “When the fuck is your brother going to show up with this miracle cure?”

“Soon,” Claudia promised, “he only finished making enough of it to revive the other fools.” Then she motioned away from their present seats. “He is bringing your parents. I am going to move so they have a place to sit close by to you.” Then she stood up and dug her fingers into Kadar’s wrist to pull him away. 

“Fuck,” Lucy mumbled before she gave up the pretense of remaining upright and slumped down onto the table. “Kill me,” she mumbled to the tablecloth. 

Claudia took him to a table for two, adjacent to the massive arrangement of the main tables and pushed him into the corner by the wall before sitting opposite him. She had a pinch of pain in her face that didn’t echo into her voice when she said, “tell me everything that happened at the bachelor party. My brothers are unreliable sources—Ezio was too drunk to remember and Federico does not share well.”

“Am I going to get food though?” Kadar asked. He looked over at the table of ladies (none of which had food yet, but all of which had drinks) and then back at Claudia. He smiled innocently at her scowl. “I haven’t eaten.”

“Yes, of course, you’ll get food. Now tell me.” Claudia motioned at him. He told her everything that he knew, everything that had been relayed to him via text message by the semi-reliable sources that had been at the party. He was interrupted briefly by the arrival of Federico bearing glasses of some smoothie-like miracle cure that he gave to Lucy and Claudia and nobody else.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> I don’t know if you require it but Federico has finished the cure.
> 
> Thank you for letting me know
> 
> Want to go to the doghouse for breakfast?
> 
> Isn’t there supposed to be a breakfast in the ballroom?
> 
> Yes but that’s to make sure all the drunks have food before the wedding
> 
> Sure.

Malik was already awake and showered by the time Altair reached a state of useful consciousness. His hair was damp and just starting to ruffle up away from his scalp. He was still shirtless (which was a notable occurrence considering Malik almost always had some manner of shirt on). He wasn’t sitting on the bed but leaning against the window across the room, looking out at the gardens beyond the house. The flowers there weren’t in full bloom yet but there was enough that it was a nice sight. 

“Morning,” Altair mumbled.

Malik turned his head to look back at him and smiled. “Good morning,” he said. Then he resumed looking out the window for a beat. Altair used the silence to dig around for his phone and try to force his entire body to find the energy to move. He was only partially successful in the endeavor by the time Malik turned around and walked back over to the bed. Rather than sit on the side, he climbed up onto the bed from the foot of it. He walked on his knees, wearing nothing but his endearingly ridiculous briefs, before he settled on Altair’s legs. His fingers spread across the blanket stretched over Altair’s waist while he regarded the pattern of the covers thoughtfully. Just as Altair opened his mouth to prompt him into saying something, Malik said, “I want you to come with me when I go to college. I wasn’t going to stay it because it seemed selfish and presumptive. It would benefit me if you had an apartment near the college and I didn’t want to let the seductive ease of that to be confused for my desire to have you close by. I keep thinking that if I don’t tell you how much I want to be close to you that you won’t have the ability to hurt me if you aren’t. I have been waiting for you to realize I am not worth the trouble—the comments of the anonymous public, the commentary of the idiot news, the undoubtedly two-faced opinions of your own family. I am difficult on good days; your life is rife with people who are already far too demanding of your good humor and your patience. I am exhausted by their constant need and constant upheaval and I have only been around a fraction of them for a few hours. I have never allowed myself to want something like this, like you. I have never considered love or desire to be any sort of security. I don’t know how to be comforted by your offers of support. I don’t know how to protect you, or when I should.”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Altair said. His hands had found their way to resting across Malik’s thighs (almost by default). 

The noise Malik made was not a laugh or a sigh but some poor bastard of both. “I think that’s how this is supposed to work, Altair. I think, if I know all these sore spots,” and his fingers pressed against the center of the flowers tattooed on his side and he looked up at Altair’s face, “and I sit by while they are used against you, I have failed you. I want to be _safe_ with you. I want you to be _safe_ with me.”

Altair tightened his hands around Malik’s legs and pulled himself up to sitting. The space between them was crowded but it was less vulnerable than being looked with such regretful intensity. Altair pressed his forehead against Malik’s. 

“I’ve never loved anyone,” Malik said, “I haven’t even liked most people. I haven’t even liked myself.”

He looped his arms around Malik and nodded his head in a way that made Malik nod in return. There was no-space-at-all between them now. Just a sliver of air. Altair said, “I want to feel safe with you,” like he never wanted to say the words-ever (and he hadn’t). “I have loved people, I haven’t felt safe with them.”

Malik tipped his head to the side, looked at him with that same heavy regret. “I’m sorry, for my part. I’m sorry I’ve demanded you play by rules that I don’t follow in return. I’m sorry I’ve expected perfection and given you less than half the effort I should have.”

“I have faith,” Altair said before Malik could say much else on the subject. (Perhaps more than was even true.) “That we will work it out. I would be happy to follow you to college.” He thought about kissing Malik but he wasn’t sure it would be _right_ so he settled for pressing their foreheads again and Malik smiled. It was Malik that kissed him, all sweet and slow. 

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> That disgusting green slime your cousin brought me really is a miracle cure.
> 
> Yes
> 
> My Mom keeps looking at me and crying.
> 
> I am having breakfast with Edward, the people he sleeps with, his children, Federico and his wife, and their child, Malik and Altair
> 
> They are mostly concerned with giving me tips
> 
> about our ‘wedding night’
> 
> Ooo, anything good?
> 
> I wouldn’t know, I ignored them in favor of listening to Captain Haytham Kenway
> 
> Still sounds better than having your Mom cry all the time.
> 
> Well, Mama Maria isn’t here yet.
> 
> She’s not your Mother.
> 
> I know

The doghouse was not made to comfortably accommodate large parties. The current grouping wouldn’t have been so overwhelming if it hadn’t been for how physically large a number of the people were. The table itself could comfortably sit five and so they had spilled outward from the table to take over the counters in the kitchen and the doorways. Altair was caught in a conversation with Mary and Anne while they stood around a communal plate of waffles cut into easy triangles. 

Malik was sitting at the table with a generously heaped plate (courtesy of Edward, Adewale and Cristina who insisted politely) listening but not actively participating in the engaging tales about life on the exile yacht. Federico was full of life talking about his visits. Edward exaggerated shark attacks while Adewale condemned their dramatic flair. 

But Desmond (after escaping the lesbian couple recommending various sex positions) was sitting at the opposite end of the table with Haytham who was not eating but explaining about how he’d gotten a scar on his arm.

“And then,” he continued on, “we were sure we had him! That seadog was backed into the corner, you could smell the fear on him! He lost his cutlass and his pistols were out of bullets!” There was no telling from the seriousness of Haytham’s retelling if actual weapons were employed in the mutiny. “And I was _betrayed_!” He jumped off his chair when he said it. “ _Betrayed_ by my own flesh and blood!”

Jennifer, the older and calmer of the two, only rolled her eyes. “Dad was letting you win.”

Haytham sucked a breath in loud enough it brought the other conversations to a standstill. He clutched his hand to his chest and stared at his sister with white-shock and wide-wide eyes. “He would _never_. All a pirate has is his integrity!” 

“Pirates were _thieves_ and _murderers_ ,” Jennifer said. “And Dad was going to let you win. That’s why I switched sides. You want to take the ship, you have to earn it.”

“But we could have! You and me, Jennifer. If you hadn’t betrayed me. Dad! Tell her that we could have, it doesn’t matter how big he is. Dad isn’t a murderer, he isn’t a thief.” Haytham’s whole face was spotted pink with outrage at the very notion. “He doesn’t even fight! We could have taken the ship, Jennifer.” When his sister rolled her eyes at him, Haytham screamed at her. 

“Hey,” Edward said. “Walk away.”

Haytham was caught between staying right where he was, all anger and bony wounded pride, and walking off like he was told. The indecision made him sway on his feet, forward and back and forward again. When he finally made his mind up, he didn’t stomp to freedom but march over to his father. (How strange to think of Edward as anyone’s father.) He stood at his elbow, “you make me so angry,” he said down at his sister. “You’re not even a real pirate.”

Vincenzio, sitting on Federico’s lap the whole while, sensed that sympathy was necessary because he picked up a handful of cut up pancakes and eggs and held them out toward Haytham. The boy didn’t look convinced about taking the food (nobody could blame him) but he accepted the offering with violent gratitude aimed at his sister.

“Thank you, Vincenzio,” he said very loudly, “at least someone understands the importance of family.”

Jennifer just rolled her eyes again. “He drooled all over that,” she said before she picked up her plate and relocated herself to the kitchen. Conversation resumed by degrees. First Mary and Anne and then Federico and Adewale until bit by bit they had all started chatting again. 

“Are you going to have children?” Cristina asked. It was an innocent enough question. One of her hands was resting at her waist where it was barely (if at all) obvious that she was pregnant herself. There was doting motherly affection caught in her face after witnessing the warring of the two siblings. 

“Maybe,” Desmond said. “I think Lucy wants a child. Not yet, but at some point.” He smiled because it felt like what he was supposed to do. “Do you know if you’re having a boy or girl?”

“No,” Cristina said. “We didn’t know last time either. My only concern is that they are healthy. And it makes Mama Maria angry,” she said very privately, “that we don’t want to know. She gets so angry about it. It’s good for her, to not get what she wants.” And when Cristina smiled that time it was the viciously proud smile of a woman that knew she would take the throne one day. 

“I doubt she’s used to it,” Desmond said. He might have said more but Altair dropped into the chair next to him with a sudden jar of table legs. “What?” Desmond said, “if this is about sex you better just keep your mouth shut.”

“Oh come on,” Altair said, “I was comparing notes with the lesbians and we have a whole how-to guide for you. Lucy deserves the best, man.” But his grin was feral and pleased at Desmond’s embarrassment. He relented almost immediately. “I’m sure you’ll do fine. I’ll stop teasing.” _For now_ was the implication left hanging but unsaid.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Where the hell are you?
> 
> I’m getting my hair done with the girls
> 
> What?
> 
> You’re not a girl
> 
> Ok but you’ve never gotten a manicure so you wouldn’t understand
> 
> Manicures aren’t hair
> 
> Well they just started with my hair. I’m getting it conditioned
> 
> Whatever makes you happy. Are you going to be back?
> 
> Yes, but only with enough time to get dressed and show up at the wedding
> 
> What’s up
> 
> Nothing. You just disappeared.

Lucy had the look of a wild animal that had been shoved into a cage far too small for it, abandoned to starve to death and then laughed at by careless fools that put too much faith into a rusty lock. Any second, the bitter grip she had on her self-control was going to snap. Claudia had abandoned him to get her hair done and Maria had been pulled away to settle some dispute among the lesser bridesmaids. 

“Hey,” Kadar said. He dropped himself into the chair next to Lucy while the hairdresser excused herself to go get a different sort of comb. He reached over with his foot to turn the chair she was sitting on with the point of his toes and smiled (charmingly, inoffensively) at the ugly scowl that was pulling her pretty face out of shape. “You okay?”

“Oh I’m perfect,” Lucy said.

That was a lie. Kadar leaned back into the seat and cocked up an eyebrow to acknowledge that they both knew it wasn’t even sort of true. “Is everything alright with Desmond?”

“He says that it is. I heard that the asshole finally showed up to do his job so he should be fine.” Her teeth were gritted tight between each word. “I mean that, nobody will bother him. I just hate this whole stupid tradition. Why can’t I see him? I just mentioned it to my Mom that I’d like to see him and know that he’s really fine and she went on and on about how I needed to let him be a man. How stupid is that? As if his dick is going to fall off for having any kind of human weakness.” Lucy growled a wordless, aggravated noise and then drew in a breath and pushed it out again through her nose. “I’m fine,” she said again. “How about you? This doesn’t seem like your idea of a fun time either. How did you get here?”

“Claudia,” Kadar said. “I owe her one because she’s going to be my date to prom. I’m fine. You know, the tradition is that you can’t see him but you can probably call him. My brother is damn good at lying about how good he in print but you can hear when he’s not in his voice. Maybe that will help?”

“I don’t want to worry him. It was my idea to make this wedding a real thing. We’re really getting married today, we weren’t supposed to. And I just—I feel like my head is being filled up with these stupid expectations and I just want to go back three weeks to when I knew what I wanted and what I needed and I had both. You know?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “Well, you only got a couple of hours left. Then they’ll all go back to where they came from. I think you can do it.” He might have said more but the hairdresser was back.

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> I didn’t text before because Malik said Mama Maria and Giovanni were here
> 
> I know it takes time to deal with them
> 
> I assume that since he followed me into the house you had consciously chosen to spare him this early meeting.
> 
> But that was almost an hour ago.
> 
> Come tell me what happened.

Mama Maria said, “was that your new friend that I saw with you?” whenever Altair greeted her at the entrance of the house. She was already dressed for the ceremony, looking extravagant and still reserved. She was picture perfect next to the severe up-and-down starkness of her husband who was not frowning (precisely) but observing them grimly. “I hoped to meet him before the wedding.”

“You can meet him at the reception,” Altair assured her, “he was late meeting with his friends.” The excuse was an _audible_ lie, bluntly obvious to everyone that heard him. But that wasn’t nearly as annoying as the way Mama Maria smiled forgivingly at him. 

“I look forward to meeting the man that’s finally managed to make something of you.” And while Mama Maria sounded almost sincere, the way Giovanni rolled his eyes at the word ‘man’ made Altair’s hands curl up at his sides. The press of his teeth was tight-and-dry inside of his mouth. That jumping muscle all around his jaw hardened into a consistent point. “Is there anything I could do to help?”

“No,” Altair said. “You’re a guest. Everything is managed.” He didn’t look at Mama Maria but at Giovanni who was looking bored-and-placid, not at all confrontational. The lack of emotion on his face was a skill that had skipped Federico (who saw no reason to hide his emotions in the brief seconds before he attacked) and been given in all its glory to Ezio who could smile and laugh with the utmost sincerity all the way to the second he slid a knife between your ribs. There was simply no trusting a man who didn’t show his intentions.

“Well that would be nice if you have managed it,” Mama Maria said. “I think I’ll go and see Mrs. Finch a moment while we are waiting.” She motioned Giovanni to follow her (like a good dog) and he went.

Altair didn’t go to Desmond, but went to find Ezio (perfect and shirtless) still hiding in his room. He had the look of a man who had just showered as he sipped at the green slime that Federico had apparently passed out to all his favorites early that day. He looked up from the garment bag he had been staring into when the door opened and smiled only until Altair slammed the door behind him again. 

Ezio cocked up an eyebrow at the echo of noise and then lifted the glass to his mouth to sip at it again. He was halfway turning away when he said, “my parents have arrived?”

“Yes. Finish getting dressed and go keep them busy.” 

“What did they do already?” Ezio asked. He set the glass to the side and turned around so he could face Altair directly. He was the epitome of lazy, disinterested in the problem at hand with a semi-smile stuck on his face. 

“It’s not what they have done; it’s what they will try to do if they are not entertained. I don’t want them interfering with the wedding.” Altair reached for the door, content that the problem had been handled, but Ezio’s soft sighing interrupted him.

“Federico tells me that my Father is homophobic. I find it strange that he is when he’s never said a word to me about Leonardo. Federico says that I am Mother’s favorite child, besides Petruccio, and that Father would never cross my Mother. It’s a compromise, I think. If I am safe from his bigotry and reproach, then he is free to offer his opinion to anyone else.” Ezio shrugged as if it were only fair. “Keeping them away from the wedding preparations will not keep them away from Malik. You,” he said, “they will not rile. Not directly. Him, they will test it out maybe.”

“If they say something about or to Malik, I will consider that a direct attempt to _rile_ me,” Altair said. Every thought he had was a vicious punctuation to that idea. 

“I hope they don’t,” Ezio said. “I’ll go and entertain them.”

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> My hair is an in “up do”. My nails are shiny.
> 
> My Mother is still crying.
> 
> I’m pretty sure Maria is going to talk my cousin out of her dress later
> 
> Claudia looks much better than me
> 
> And I feel like i’m never going to be able to breathe again
> 
> So how about when I ask you how everything is, you do a better job convincing me
> 
> Stand Claudia next to Ezio, she won’t look so good anymore
> 
> Desmond.
> 
> Unsurprisingly, Mama Maria or Giovanni has done something
> 
> Not to me
> 
> Altair is very annoyed
> 
> I’m going to skin that cunt-breathed whore.
> 
> But after the wedding
> 
> Let that bitch take one step in my direction. 
> 
> Fine. After the wedding. I miss you. See you soon?
> 
> Yes

Altair looked good in a suit.

He always had; even at two years old with his hair in fluffy peaks around his face and his tie pulled loose by his busy fingers. Even with something spilled on his shirt and his aimless feet kicking at the air while he waited on the bench for the adults to stop wasting their time. Even when he started getting bigger around than he was tall and Phyllis had slapped the woman at the charity function for using the f-a-t word in front of Altair. Even when he was all bones and angles, with ribs and elbows poking out the sides of his suit and his cheeks stretched tight across his skull. 

And right now, not so long before Desmond was due to stand at an altar and marry a woman far more amazing than he deserved, Altair was standing there not so far away with his tie hanging loose and his vest half-buttoned, being effortlessly better looking and more comfortable in a suit than Desmond could even imagine. 

The entirety of their lives seemed _staggering_ in light of the emptiness of the room around them. Lucy had sent him minute-by-minute updates of the chaos of the woman’s changing room. The hullabaloo of so many family members trying to give her last minute tips and suggestions. 

Desmond was wearing a suit that fit him perfectly, watching Altair struggle through keeping his disappointment and hurt from interrupting the day, with absolute silence filling up the room like water in his ears.

“Hey,” Desmond said. When they were children still, long before Desmond had stopped believing his father, Altair had found him crying about his tie in one of the side rooms of the house. William wouldn’t fix it for him because he had done it once and if Desmond couldn’t fix it himself, he should simply not show up. Federico had rolled his eyes about it and Ezio had shrugged about how Desmond looked better without it. (More natural, Ezio had said, more like _yourself_.) 

Altair had found him with the long ends of the stupid tie wrapped around his fists and the miserable full reality of his own inevitable failure crushing his shoulders straight down into the center of his ribs. All those years ago, Altair said, _I couldn’t find you, I’ve been looking for you, what’s wrong Desmond. What’s wrong_. 

Maybe it _had_ or maybe it _hadn’t_ occurred to Altair (grown up Altair, right-now Altair) how often he’d been lied to when they were children. Maybe the compounded insult of the things that had been hidden from him hadn’t been fully settled. The whole of their history was full of those little lies, like Desmond with his nose full of wet snot and Altair with his curious-tilting head wondering why he hadn’t been at the party. And Desmond had said it was _nothing_ , just he didn’t like the _noise_. But Altair fixed his tie and pulled him back and kept him company on the edges watching the noise-and-motion of the room around them.

“What?” Altair asked. “Look, its fine. I’m not going to do an—”

Desmond hugged him. Altair’s denial stalled out into static and his arms stayed lax at his sides for a pause before he brought them up to wrap around him. “Thank you,” he said (for all the things, for _every_ thing that Altair had done, for the good and the bad and the unknowing kindnesses that had saved the ragged edges of Desmond’s whole being when he needed it). He didn’t pull away immediately but linger in the hug and felt Altair relax into it. 

“Anything for you,” Altair said with his arms still around Desmond. The words were quiet. A promise kept between them. Then he leaned back. “But this is good. Marrying Lucy is good.”

“I know,” Desmond said. He just didn’t know how to say the rest. How he was glad it was Altair here with him. How he wouldn’t have wanted anyone else. And how he was worried (if only for now, for these last nervous minutes) that something could _change_ that could change this. Altair smiled at him in that same stupid way he had since he was a child with chubby fingers fixing his tie for him; the one he gave him when he didn’t know why Desmond was upset but he didn’t want him to be sad anymore. (And how _often_ had that been their life that Altair had an entire expression to encompass it.) “I _know_ ,” he said with more authority. “Maybe you should finish getting dressed though.”

“Ha,” Altair countered. He lingered looking at Desmond a moment and then nodded like putting a cap on the whole affair.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Why did you forgive me?
> 
> For what?
> 
> Pick anything.
> 
> I think that you’re asking the wrong question. 
> 
> You assume the things that you’ve done or said to me are worse than they are. You have an idea that I’m still some little kid that needs you to protect him.
> 
> I wasn’t happy when I realized you were human.
> 
> I wasn’t happy when I realized you were terrible at being human.
> 
> I was angry. I am angry that you hurt yourself.
> 
> I’m angry that you don’t always trust me.
> 
> But none of those things are things that you need forgiveness for
> 
> If you did, I would give you forgiveness if you asked for it
> 
> Because I believe that you wouldn’t come to me asking for it if you weren’t already aware of what you had done, the cost of it and wanted to make amends.
> 
> I would forgive you because you are my brother and you have never been a monster to me. You were my hero once, and you were my idol once and now you are my brother. A person as fallible and fucked up as I am
> 
> I understand what it’s like to mess up
> 
> I understand what it feels like to want to be forgiven
> 
> So I would forgive you. So you could forgive yourself.
> 
> Well, you’re my hero.
> 
> So fair’s fair.

Malik had not been sent away. He hadn’t been asked to leave. But when he suggested he should go find Sofia, he had not been asked to stay either. It took him a few tries before he managed to find Sofia as she finished getting dressed in her room. There was an entire army of beauticians somewhere in the mansion, making anyone who had the money to spare on them perfectly beautiful. But Sofia was wearing a pretty dress with her hair pulled up away from her face. She was fitting the last of the bobby pins into her hair when he came in.

“You look very nice,” she said. She looked at the suit that had been bought for him and fixed the straps on her dress. “What happened to Kadar? I had gone to see if he wanted to get breakfast with me but he wasn’t in his room.”

“Oh,” Malik said. “He got kidnapped by the women. I think he’s their pet or something.” He looked around her room and then back at her. There was a lot of things he wanted to say (or things he wanted to ask) but he found himself saying, “who would have thought we’d be here?”

Sofia laughed, sweet and quiet, “well. When I found out who you had been harassing on the internet, I did some research. It doesn’t surprise me that you have arrived here. It does surprise me that I have somehow followed you.” She came over and smoothed her hand across his shoulder, picked at lint that wasn’t there and then let her fingers touch at the lapels of his suit jacket. “This is really nice fabric.”

“I had to fit the part,” Malik said. Then he sighed. “I’m moving back, I’m not sure if it’ll be over the summer or in August, but I’m coming back to school.” It didn’t feel like what he wanted to say and from the look on Sofia’s face it didn’t seem like what she thought she’d hear. “I didn’t think it would take me so long to sort everything out. You know? When I came home last year I didn’t think I wouldn’t make it back. I thought, I’ll just go home for a little while. I’ll take a few months off and I’ll be right back as soon as I can.”

Sofia’s hands dropped down to hang in the space between them. “You had a few things to deal with, I think. That’s the thing with you. You don’t give yourself the time or space to make mistakes; you don’t allow yourself the time to recover. You try to convince yourself that everything is over and done with simply because you are tired of thinking about it. You’re _impatient_.”

But since they were skirting around the issue, Malik said, “have you seen him today?”

“No,” Sofia said. “I don’t want to be in the middle of this. It’s not me he needs anyway. I can’t help him; I’ve _tried_.” She fixed the cuff of his shirt where it had gotten crooked. “I’m not saying that he hasn’t been a shit, because he has.”

Malik snorted. That was an understatement if ever there was one spoken. The alarm on his phone (set to alert him to the start of the wedding) buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out to silence it. “After the ceremony,” he said.

“Of course,” she said. But then, “can we go down the staircase in the front? I just want to do it once.” 

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> The dress is perfect.
> 
> I despise you for it.

Kadar didn’t check his phone because they were at a _wedding_ but if he had to guess who was sending him messages, he might have guessed it would be Claudia. On the one hand, it was technically impolite and therefore something that an Auditore (as he gathered) was _not_ allowed to do. While Claudia had referred to him as her date to the wedding, she had all but shoved him at his brother as soon as they made it to the seats. Her smile had slipped loosely across her face from the one that she offered him in the helicopter to one that matched that hollow-thing she gave Lucy’s family. 

Mama Maria (as Kadar had heard the woman called by many people) was far prettier than Kadar was expecting. Her voice (warm and inviting) was almost a shock as her face had been. He stood next to Malik watching with slack-jawed confusion as Mama Maria hugged Claudia to her chest and then stepped back to inspect her wardrobe and her hair. Her fingers touched at the little loose strands of Claudia’s hair and her smile was just short of approving. Still she slid her arm through her daughters and pulled her away to sit with the rest of the family. 

Federico (and his wife), Ezio (and Leonardo) and Claudia took up a clump of seats near the front of the aisle completely removed from any other family but anonymous looking strangers. 

“When you marry Altair, can you just do it at a trailer park or something?” Kadar whispered as he got dragged into his seat by Malik. “I mean, I’ve always thought to myself, I wonder what living through the Cold War was really like but never mind I think I’ve got an idea now.”

“Right, so as soon as the United States makes it legal to marry Altair I’ll be sure to do that in a trailer park while he’s wearing some tea length wedding dress.” Malik rolled his eyes with so much emphasis it was a wonder they didn’t go rolling under the seats.

“Have you talked to Leonardo?” Kadar asked.

Malik was spared from answering him (not that he looked like he was going to) by the arrival of Desmond and Altair, looking even more like brothers than usual. They stood at the altar, neither of them smiling even a little, and nodded at the fretful woman that seemed to be in charge of coordinating the wedding. 

The music started and everyone stood up to watch the procession of pretty blonde girls that had been elected (last minute) to be flower girls and bridesmaids. Maria Thorpe was an aberration with her coal black hair and her perfectly pink smile. 

Then there was Lucy, as beautiful as a princess, smiling with a blush on her pale cheeks as she walked next to her father up the long-long aisle while hungover (strangers) watched. The ornamental detail on the dress caught the light and drew attention to the perfect tailoring that kept the dress slim along her breasts and ribs before it fell long and loose into the train that followed behind her. Desmond smiled for Lucy; he smiled like he couldn’t have stopped himself even if he tried. There was a quiet, private _honest_ joy on Desmond’s face. 

“I want to marry someone that makes me feel like that,” Kadar whispered to his brother. He got elbowed for saying anything but then they were asked to sit and they stayed sitting for the entirety of the ceremony. 

\--

horse: perhaps the most beautiful thing about this wedding is the undeniable joy of the new husband and wife (2m ago)

Desmond had not forgotten about the kiss; he had no forgotten about his bride’s need to display their happiness through whatever displays of aggressive satisfaction. There was no surprise (not anywhere in his body) that Lucy pulled him with one hand fisted in his clothes and her tongue slipping into his mouth. There was no shame in her (not even a little bit) in regards the priest that was standing close enough that his breathing was audible. No sense of modesty for her parents that were looking on from the audience or even a remote sense of the endless teasing that would follow them until they died from any number of his less mature cousins.

What surprised Desmond was the way his arm slid around her back. The way the new weight of a wedding ring on his finger made his heart skip a beat and his brain blank out because he kissed her back like they were _all alone_. Her delight was a humming noise into the kiss and her perfect pink smile when the priest cleared his throat. 

Somewhere behind him, or to the side, Altair was laughing under his breath and somewhere not far from Lucy, Maria was smirking into the bouquets she was holding. 

The priest motioned them out toward the audience of people who were cheering them on (except the more formal guests, that small pocket of terribly boring people who did not whoop or catcall) and pronounced them man and wife. Desmond didn’t look very far into the crowd, just skipped over familiar faces, Mama Maria’s reserved judgment, Claudia’s pinked face all filmy with tears, the boy cousins looking _bored_ of how terribly reserved they had to be. Mrs. Finch in the front, holding London in her lap, her whole face red from her quiet crying as Mr. Finch sat at her side with the same nod of approval he had always spared for anything that pleased his wife.

Lucy’s fingers threaded through his and pulled Desmond’s attention back to her. He smiled at her. “Oh _god_ ,” she whispered, “we really did it.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Where are you?
> 
> Roses

The wedding had broken up into small talk in little pods of people during the short intermission between the ceremony and the following reception. Desmond, Lucy and the rest of the wedding party were posing for photographs and the entertainment had been (when Malik walked away) setting up.

Leonardo was wearing most of a fine suit, sitting on a bench with his legs crossed in front of him and his sketch book resting across his knees. His back was bowed forward, his suit jacket was laying over the bench and his long white sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. There was pencil on his hand and his arm from where he’d been sketching flowers over and over again across the paper. The lines were smudged from the oil on his skin. When he looked up, his whole face was gaunt and gray, pulled out of shape by exhaustion. He sighed. “No universe where you’d pick me?” he said as if that, out of all possible things, had been what stuck with him. “Let your concise ability to wound never be underestimated.”

Malik kicked at the fine gravel that was here and there across the path. He sank his hand into his pocket and shrugged. “I don’t want to wound you; but it felt like I had to.”

“That is a fair assessment.” Leonardo set the sketchbook to the side and kept the pencil gripped in his fist. “How many people had to send you to me before you came?”

“All of them,” Malik said. Then he sighed again. “You have to explain this to me, Leonardo. I don’t understand. Half the time you tell me that you think he’s good for me and half the time you just—hurt everyone.”

“When the paramedics arrived at the scene of the accident, after they managed to get the door out of the way, it took two of them to get me to let go of you. I knew that your best chance for survival lay with you making it to the hospital in a timely fashion. I knew that you were grievously injured. I knew your odds for survival. I couldn’t let you go.” Leonardo’s hair was falling out of the elastic at the nap of his neck. The chaotic and perfect fall of hair here-and-there made him seem far more innocent than he ever had been. “I considered myself a being of supreme logic. I _knew_ that I was lowering your chance of survival. It didn’t matter because I had convinced myself that if I just kept holding on you would make it. I sat in that car with you, sat with my knee pinned between the crushed door and your bloody thigh and my two fingers _inside_ the hamburger meat of your arm. It was eleven minutes and twenty six seconds between the phone call and the arrival of the paramedics.”

Leonardo was all pink-and-spotted, the tears in his eyes were bright and falling off his lashes as he tried to look like he wasn’t shaking. He was absolute with his own impatience, his dismissal of the whole story as it unfolded. 

“I don’t even believe in God,” Leonardo said, “I was _praying_ to any god, to your Mother’s God that I wouldn’t have to call her and tell her where to find your corpse. But I couldn’t let you go. They had to drag me away.”

Malik stepped forward and Leonardo shook his head and put his hand up to push against his chest. It was a feeble attempt to hold him at bay. Malik grabbed him by the back of the shirt and pulled him off the bench and up to his feet. Leonardo was too damn tall to crush to his body but he tried anyway. His only arm seemed insufficient to offer any security or warmth. The way Leonardo pressed his face against Malik’s neck, the shiver of his body, the desperate clench of his fists in the back of his jacket made Malik’s whole face flush with hurt. “Thank you,” Malik said because he didn’t even know what else there was to say. “Thank you for saving my life. Thank you for being my friend. Thank you for helping me find my way back after. I’m sorry I didn’t see you were lost.” He tightened his arm around Leonardo when the man’s shoulders heaved up-down in an attempt to keep from crying. “I’ll stand by you, I’ll be there for you, but only if you do something to help yourself. I _can’t_ stay if you’re going to hurt people.”

Leonardo nodded. “Altair is good for you. He has been for a long time. You need someone that challenges you. You need someone that doesn’t always need you.” Then he pulled back and wiped his face with the back of his hand. When Leonardo cleared his throat, he looked back toward the rising commotion of noise. “Did you bet on who would throw the first punch?”

“No,” Malik said. “I thought it would give them the impression that I thought it was funny.”

“I don’t know who it is going to be,” Leonardo said. He wiped at Malik’s shoulder with an embarrassed grimace. “But the punch will be thrown over a foul word spoken about you. They are all waiting for it.” 

“I’ve gotten that impression too,” Malik said. Then he motioned back toward the path he took to get there. “Let’s get it over with then.”

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> Do me a favor, push your brother into a crowd.
> 
> Why?
> 
> If he’s occupied they won’t talk to him.
> 
> Push him down the stairs, just keep them from getting to him.
> 
> Send your brother; Leonardo wants Sofia to marry him
> 
> Malik won’t notice if he thinks it’s someone else’s plan

Kadar hadn’t expected for Ezio to find them standing in a loose group, exchanging bland anecdotes about their lives since last Christmas. At best, he figured that Claudia would send him more threats and at worst he expected Mama Maria to swoop in like a villain, full of cape and sharp retorts. There had been an infinite amount of talk about how handsome Ezio was (especially up close) and there had been no reason at all that Kadar could see to doubt the validity of that statement. Yet, he hadn’t been formally introduced (as one might say) and therefore was less prepared to continue exchanging lame small talk once the man himself invited himself into their conversation.

Ezio was far shorter than Kadar expected. That aside, he was every bit as stupidly handsome as advertised. Even more impressive, he smelled _amazing_. Kadar wasn’t much for the beauty of other men but he was distracted by the carelessly attractive smell that came off Ezio. (And he spent far too long trying to figure out if it were cologne, laundry soap or some natural musk that evolution has given Ezio to assure he’d never go to bed alone.)

“Close your mouth,” Malik said. He must have interrupted someone else talking because everyone looked over at Kadar who blushed hard enough to make his face feel hot. Malik was smiling; clearly pleased with himself. 

Ezio clapped a hand on Kadar’s shoulder. “It happens to everyone,” he said with zero modesty at all. But he laughed and it was _charming_ in the most sickening way possible. A quick chuckle to undermine the arrogance of his statement without even pretending to abandon it.

Sofia rolled her eyes. “I can’t help but imagine that after a certain amount of time has passed, your conversations with Leonardo will become nothing more than the mutual worship of your unnaturally perfect face.” 

“Or sex,” Malik added.

“Yes,” Sofia agreed. “When other topics fail, Leonardo will always have something to say about sex.”

There might have been more conversation to be had but Altair stepped up behind Malik and slid his arms around Malik, pulled him back a half step and rested his chin on Malik’s shoulder. “Save me from the men with cameras.”

Malik tipped his head back and to the side to look at Altair. “At this point, I do not think that is possible. Didn’t you hire the photographers? Tell them you’re done.” It was easy, simple advice but Malik let himself be pulled away to go tell men he didn’t hire that they were no longer needed.

Once he was gone, Sofia turned around to look out toward the crowd. Leonardo glanced over at Ezio. Ezio heaved a sigh, “they won’t be held off forever. Better to let them come and be done before anyone starts drinking.”

“What?” Sofia asked.

“Didn’t you say Federico was the favorite for the first punch?” Leonardo asked. He shifted the way he was standing to explain the whole nature of the stupid bet regarding who would throw the first punch to Sofia who looked unimpressed and then just annoyed the more was explained to her. “Seems more likely it would be Altair at this point.”

Kadar scoffed at that, “you’re all wrong. It won’t be Altair. Those people,” he motioned over to the Auditore parents. “They aren’t going to hurt my brother.”

“Don’t underestimate them,” Ezio cautioned.

“I don’t. Not for a minute. They’re not going to say _anything_ to Malik. I’ve been paying attention these past two years. If they’re anything at all like the stories I’ve heard, they are going to go after the weakest. You’re all wrong, I’m calling it now. You think it’s Malik. It’s not. It’s going to be Lucy.”

Ezio drew in a breath and let it out again through his nose. “I would rather it were Altair.” But he nodded his head. 

\--

FedericotheFirst: thank you, @coffee4college, for finally making an honest man of @shirley-templar (2m ago)

Malik had gone from standing next to Altair while he told me with photographs that they weren’t needed, to standing with Federico who was drawing magnanimous comparison between his own (forced) nuptials and these. Cristina had been there to offer contradictions and minor adjustments to the exaggerations that Federico was telling. Their crowd was a small selection of strangers (who judging by the starry-eyed-gleam in their eyes, most likely watched ‘the show’).

When Federico’s protection failed, Claudia had swooped in. “I am going to prom with your brother,” she said, “with such a serious step in our relationship, I feel I should make myself better acquainted with your family.”

“You’re going to prom with him?” Malik repeated. He couldn’t recall if he had been given this information prior or if were the first time he was hearing it.

“Yes,” Claudia said. “It’s Twilight themed, so perhaps you could assist me in thinking up some manner of accessory that would fit with the theme?”

“Diamonds?” Malik offered. He hadn’t been _sincere_ when he said it. But it was firmly stuck in his head that vampires apparently sparkled in direct sunlight. By the time he looked at her, Claudia seemed to be completely convinced that diamonds were an appropriate addition to her wardrobe choice. “Why are you really going to prom with him?”

“He gave me solid advice,” Claudia said.

Malik tried to convey how little he trusted that to be true without having to say it. Either his face was more expressive than average or Claudia was far more observant than he considered. Either way, she sighed just a little.

“I find your brother to be interesting and I would like to see if I could have a friendship with him. While his manipulative nature reminds me of myself. The genuine good that is obvious in him is unique. There are not many people who I have met who are inherently good people. Even less that can maintain that level of goodness in the face of money.” Claudia shrugged. 

“Why are you hiding me from your parents?” Malik asked.

Then Claudia rolled her eyes, “because this isn’t about us, or you or Altair. This is about Desmond and he deserves something good. More than good.”

But she dropped him off with Edward without even missing a beat and was gone again into the crowd of people assembling for the proper start of the reception. Edward had a cup of fish shaped crackers in one hand and a drink in the other when Malik was abruptly left at his side.

“I missed something,” he said just before Haytham came to steal a handful of crackers. The boy stood there smugly eating them in front of Vincenzio who showed up and wailed injustice. Edward held the cup low enough for the little boy to get his own crackers. “What did I miss?”

“They don’t want the Auditore parents to get to me,” Malik said. 

“Ah, well walk with me. We’ll go back to the lesbians. They’ll protect us.” He stuck out a pinkie and Vincenzio took it in his little grimy fist and let himself be guided along.

\--

EzioAuditore: congratulations @coffee4college, @shirley-templar, you deserve the very best. (6m ago)

The problem was that everyone—all the siblings, all the cousins, all the close friends—were so concentrated on circling the reception with Malik kept neatly in the center of whatever group was closest that not a single person was left to keep track of anyone else. Altair had only _happened_ to be standing next to Desmond and Mrs. Finch because they were supposed to be trying to make sense of the reception that had quickly devolved from anything remotely organized to a great deal of loud music and rambunctious dancing. Lucy was happy (and as far as Altair was concerned that was all that mattered) but there was a wedding coordinator (or whatever she was called) that assured him that it was customary for there to be toasts and first dances.

“I don’t know,” Desmond was saying to him with one of his hands pulling at the back of his neck. “We talked about all that but I don’t know if we ever decided that we wanted to do it.”

“Oh you should,” Mrs. Finch said. The tone of her voice was gentle encouragement; the sound that had followed Altair all throughout his childhood. Kept in the cold steel kitchen, Mrs. Finch was the sweetest voice of reason that had ever been heard. “It seems so silly to you now but it’s a memory you’ll want to look back on later.” Her old hands were still holding London. The little dog was a mess of fluffy fur and half-closed eyes. The traitor was pleased-as-anything to be adored so continuously. 

“There’s Lucy,” Desmond said. His smile was automatic at the corners of his mouth. He lifted a hand to point at her when she came walking toward them. Fresh off a chaotic dance floor, Lucy was pink with exertion and shimmery with sweat. She was tugging at the top of her dress as it shifted as she walked. It was inconceivable that it would be able to move in such a way to reveal anything. Still Lucy kept tugging at it until she was satisfied.

“Already leaving all the decisions to your wife?” Altair said. He nudged at Desmond’s ribs and got a flat frown in response.

“What is Maria doing?” Mrs. Finch asked. The question pulled their attention away from a short-lived staring contest and out toward Mama Maria, holding a delicate champagne flute in one hand, as she interrupted Lucy’s attempt to reach them. 

They were barely close enough to make out the tone of their words, much less the actual words being exchanged. But close enough that the steel-tightness of Lucy’s shoulders was obvious to display how very little she wanted to speak to Mama Maria. Her smile didn’t slip but mutate into something far less sincere.

“I’ll get her,” Altair said. He handed the drink he’d been holding (for ten minutes) to Desmond. He had made it only far enough to hear:

“—thank you for being so thorough in your deception. It is truly heart-warming that as someone who has so little reason to care for Mrs. Finch you are still capable of going so out of your depth and comfort to stage this show. As admirable as your dedication has been,” and every word seemed to make Lucy’s muscles tighten around her bones until it was a wonder that Mama Maria’s sense of self-preservation hadn’t sent her running for safe cover, “it is best that you it is a charade. A young woman like yourself has unlimited options, there is no reason to leash yourself to a man that pity has convinced you into loving.”

Lucy slapped her. The full broad of one hand across Mama Maria’s delicate-old-face. The sound of it loud and yet drowned out by the commotion of moving bodies and the live band. Altair was only just barely close enough to hear Lucy hiss, “what is truly _admirable_ is how despicable you truly are. You cunt-breathed whore. I _did_ marry Desmond.” 

Altair interrupted with the close-step of body. The impression of his close-by body made Lucy look over at him. Mama Maria was clenched-teeth staring at Lucy for only a half-breath before she looked at him like she expected reparations to be paid. “They’re ready for that first dance, Lucy.”

For a moment, it didn’t seem that Lucy could be motivated to move but when she did, at last, she said low-toned and venomous, “remove her from my wedding,” as she went around him to go and stand by Desmond. 

“They will not last,” Mama Maria said. As if she were the only one that could see the truth. “Desmond will not make her happy.”

Altair sighed. “Leave,” he said because there was nothing else to say. There was no sense and no way to argue the point with her. So he did not even try. “Find your husband and leave. I’ll give you five minutes to go on your own and then security will come and find you.”

“You would let her treat me that way?” Mama Maria asked. 

Oh and Altair smiled. He smiled the way he’d smiled at Scott Simmons. The way he smiled when he knew (then) the way he knew (now) that he could _destroy_ this obstacle just the same as his Grandmother once had. It was a cool smile, a relief from the anxiety and worry that had followed him out of his bed that morning. He said, “our family is one of strong minds. I will not intervene unless I feel it has escalated beyond an acceptable level.” Word-for-word the sentence that haunted Desmond in all the years since Mama Maria had uttered those hateful words to him in the face the unanswered cruelty his uncle and cousin had poured out. 

“You would do best to remember who your family is,” Mama Maria said.

He shrugged. “As would you. You only have three minutes left.” Then he nodded his head and he left her there with her shock-reddened face. By the time he made it back to Desmond-and-Lucy they were halfway through a tense exchange about whether or not they had even picked a song to dance to. 

Mrs. Finch was humming with London cradled to her chest. Her old hand pressed against his arm when he returned. “Don’t you worry about Maria. She wants the money; she always has. She won’t do anything to endanger it.”

Altair might have asked what that meant but Lucy had her hands on her hips and her nose wrinkled up. “Desmond fucking Miles, don’t you think that I won’t throw you on the ground right here if you don’t stop picking a fight with me. I know what song we picked.” There was an edge of desperate humor in her voice (just begging for a relief from the anger). Desmond put his hands on her face kissed her on the nose, got himself smacked for it, and then laughed with her. 

\--

MariaThorpe: if ever I marry I hope to make as joyful a bride as @coffee4college (5m ago)

Kadar had been unoccupied (except by trying to eat) and that must have been why Maria Thorpe showed up at his side saying something like, “come and dance with me.” It was a demand, not a request, and Kadar barely had time to finish chewing the bread he had only just put in his mouth before he was hauled out of his chair and out onto the dance floor. The loud raucous music of before had given way (in the wake of the couple’s first dance) to more sedate, romantic music. It gave the crowd that had been bouncing up and down the time to pass by the bride and groom (sitting like king and queen at their table) and congratulate them on their nuptials. There was a mountain of gifts laid out on the table, wrapped all in white and silver (most likely by some number of Altair’s staff hired to make the whole thing perfect).

“I don’t actually know how to dance,” Kadar said before Maria could get any ideas about his aptitude.

She put his hand on the slim curve of her waist and held the other out to the side. They hesitated there until he nodded and she showed him how to sway to the music. It was nothing more spectacular than rocking back and forth. 

Kadar looked at the other dancers (if only to keep himself from staring down Maria’s neckline) and happened to catch the sight of his brother rolling his eyes at Altair. They were dancing closer to the stage. The closeness of their bodies seemed to be aborting their attempts to move because rather than making any sort of motion they seemed to simply be rocking side to side and laughing at their own private world. 

Leonardo was dancing with Sofia. The length of his arms and legs a comical exaggeration in comparison to her smaller stature. She tolerated the way he spun her, the pink of her smile was neither upset nor too pleased (and maybe it had nothing to do with dancing). 

Edward was dancing with his daughter (whose name started with a J, almost certainly). She was far better at dancing than Kadar was, and far more delighted to be dancing than any other person on the floor. 

“I have an ulterior motive for asking you to dance,” Maria said. She tapped her fingers against his upper arm and directed his attention to the side. They had to spin in a small circle so he could see what he was meant to be looking at. He could have expected just about anything but the sight of Claudia’s whole face wrinkled up in a child’s sullen pout. Her arms were not crossed over her chest but they might as well have been. She was looking sideways-and-down, glaring at the ground for existing. “I don’t have sympathy for most of the Auditore family. They are all together a usefully miserable bunch. But there are one or two that want to escape and cannot find the way out.”

Kadar sighed. “But are they actually connected to the mob?”

Maria laughed at that. “No.” But also, “you don’t have to. I just thought you might want to give her a reason not to follow her Mother this time.”

He didn’t ask why Claudia would be following her Mother. He didn’t ask for any details that would tangle him up in the stupidity of that whole family. Rather than that, he just nodded his head and excused himself from the dance. There was a clear path across the temporary dance floor. Up close, Claudia’s sullen pout was wet around her eyes and clenched tight at her jaw. From a distance it looked petulant but up close it looked like a desperate attempt to keep from crying. When she looked at him, the tension broke with a huffed noise and her mouth pulling up in a miserable smile. “Please don’t,” she said all wet-and-small.

“I have long arms,” he said. He held them up to the side, pointed his fingers and straightened his back so his arms were as long as they had ever been. Her eyebrows lifted up like questioning what the hell he was even talking about. “Kind of bear-like,” he added.

“So?” Claudia prompted.

Kadar stepped forward and realization made her face relax as she shook her head. “They’re perfect for hugging.” He waited a moment to be sure she was going to allow it and only after she nodded did he put his arms around her. She was so small in comparison to him, fit neatly against his chest, well hidden from all the world. He could have wrapped her up in his jacket and carried her away without anyone noticing. “Can I help?”

“No,” Claudia said. She slid her arms up under his jacket, against the dampness of his shirt wet with a light sweat. “Not with this.”

So he nodded instead. “Will you dance with me?”

Her answer was delayed. It dragged on and on with her face against his chest until she leaned back and nodded. “Yes,” she said, “I think I will.”

“Good, I need the practice for prom. I don’t know how to dance at all.” He smiled and she scoffed at him, one hand raising into the air and dropping again.

\--

_bestofthree: congratulations to the beautiful bride and groom. May your life together be as beautiful and amazing as the two of you (2m ago)_

Lucy found him after the sentimental slow songs gave way to a reprise of the louder sort. She tugged him backward toward the table overladen with gifts and said, “look, I love my wedding but if we don’t get to the part where I can throw the bouquet and disappear into the night soon, I’m going to start punching everyone.”

“Let’s do that now then,” he said. “We can get everyone out of here.” Because he was tired of the noise and the bodies and the constant crushing presence of these unknown people. He wanted them all packed into their cars and sent away. “Let me just let security know that they are going to need to start moving everyone to the cars.” 

He found the organizer and let her know that they were going to forego any other scheduled events (and really, he had fed everyone, given them alcohol and allowed them to dance for hours, there should be no complaints) and she looked as if she were about to swallow her own tongue. Then he located the head of security and had him inform the valets and the house staff that everyone would be exiting in the next hour.

By the time he made it to the stage, the wedding organizer was calling attention to all women interested in possibly catching a bouquet to gather by the stage. Altair circled back to find Desmond standing at the edge of the stage looking _exhausted_.

“How much trouble do you think we’re in?” Desmond asked him. He glanced over his shoulder at Altair. “I haven’t seen either of the brothers since Lucy slapped Mama Maria.”

“Claudia’s here,” Altair countered. He pointed at her sitting at the table with Kadar. It was an odd sight, the two of them, but they seemed content to waste time together. “I think Federico went back to the house with Edward. The little boys needed a break from the noise.”

“Sure they did.” The tone of his voice was pure disbelief. “Don’t hide it from me. Mama Maria isn’t going to let this go. She got her teeth into Lucy and she’s not going to let up until she proves that she’s the bigger bitch.”

“She’s going to let up,” Altair said. “If she didn’t learn last time, perhaps the lesson wasn’t clear enough. She doesn’t touch _my_ family.” The conversation was interrupted by the thunder of applause as the triumphant bouquet catcher was jumping up and down in the crowd, shrieking in happiness before dancing over to her boyfriend (one assumed) who looked less than completely thrilled. “Don’t you have to throw the leg thing? The garter or something like that?”

Desmond rolled his eyes, “only because Lucy says I do.” Then he pulled himself up the steps on the side of the stage.

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> Almost everyone’s gone but family
> 
> If you’re not terribly busy, if you’re still here, might be nice to see you
> 
> Let me just find my clothes.
> 
> Why wouldn’t I still be here?
> 
> I haven’t seen you or your brother in hours
> 
> I assumed it had something to do with your Mother
> 
> No. She deserved what she got.
> 
> Ezio’s probably drinking or fucking the bridesmaids. 
> 
> I’ll find him.
> 
> Bring Edward back with you, maybe
> 
> Yeah he’s getting dressed too.

Desmond shook his head at his phone before he tucked it into his pocket. Lucy was standing next to the table of gifts with her hands on her hips and her mouth pushed all to one side. 

“How did they all end up color coordinated? That’s not normal. I mean I get that most of them would be white but—how did they end up so perfect?”

Maria was sitting behind the table, eating a piece of their wedding cake the way a bird ate, all delicate in tiny bites. “My guess is they have all been rewrapped.” 

Rather than express frustration over that, Lucy just sighed and came over to slip her arm between Desmond’s elbow and his body and leaned her cheek against his shoulder. “Don’t frown like that.” She sighed. “My parents said they wanted us to come see them when we got back from our honeymoon. Of course, my Mom and Katie are both betting I’ll be knocked up by then.”

“Your family is far too preoccupied with babies.” He put his arm across her shoulders. “Let’s not have any kids right now.” Not with a war looming out at the edges. Not when Desmond couldn’t shake the dread of another long-long-family battle. He didn’t want to stay it and Lucy didn’t need to hear it (probably already assumed) but it was still stuck in his head, right on the insides of his ears. 

“Not for a while,” she agreed. “I want to go back to school first.” Then she pulled him out onto the dance floor. “Come dance with me.”

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> I found Ezio if anyone is looking for him. He’s sleeping in a bed of liquor in our room.
> 
> I am simultaneously impressed and horrified.
> 
> His tolerance for alcohol is outstanding.
> 
> Its probably safer for you to leave him there and come back
> 
> I’ve been told the brothers are rowdy drunks
> 
> Yes, of course.

They were all sitting at a table together: Mrs. Finch, (London), Malik and Altair. The band was still packing up their things but the DJ was playing songs for the man-and-wife, and Claudia-and-Kadar to dance to. 

Edward, Mary (Malik was fairly certain that was her name), Cristina and Federico were all on their way back from wherever they had gone to. They were talking among themselves, no sign of the frown that was cutting into Altair’s poor attempt at levity. And Malik wanted to say something (or ask how serious whatever had happened was) but he was out of his depth. Rather than ask, he just sat and listened to Mrs. Finch’s stories of the weddings that had been hosted in this back yard. 

“Don’t you worry,” Mrs. Finch said. In between the last part of her story about Phyllis’ white-rose-wedding and the start of another, she leaned forward and put her fingertips against Altair’s bare wrist just over the edges of those awful dates tattooed there. “Don’t you worry about Maria.”

Altair sighed. “I’m not worried; I’m trying to strategize.” But it wasn’t strategy that made his voice heavy.

Mrs. Finch’s face was brilliantly pink, “oh,” she said. “Don’t waste your time. Phyllis would say, there’s no time to waste fighting a war that’s already won.” And that was that as far as Mrs. Finch was concerned. She leaned back in her seat and turned the plate that London was busy licking so she was closer to the gravy that she wanted. The little dog was filthy from table food, snorting up the buttery leftovers as she did circles around the tables. 

“But it hasn’t been won,” Altair said. “Desmond’s not wrong. Mama Maria thinks Lucy will break and she won’t quit until she has what she wants.”

Mrs. Finch drew her eyebrows together and pressed her mouth flat into a line. For a minute the anger that brewed there was so black it made the whole of the table shiver from it. Then she said, “fucking Maria Auditore, that stupid, stupid little girl. Always begging and conniving her way to the top of the food chain. _Altair_ ,” Mrs. Finch said, “your Grandmother saw through Maria. Phyllis couldn’t tolerate the way that woman treated her sons, the way she used her husband, the way she stapled that _smile_ to her face. She couldn’t stand how complacent and spineless Giovanni was. Oh, she saw through him too—he was happy to be blind to how Maria abused his affection.”

“That doesn’t help me,” Altair said, “she’ll still—”

“ _Maria_ won’t bother you a minute longer than you allow. Altair—haven’t you ever read the papers your Grandmother left? Have you ever taken a thorough look at what you own?” Mrs. Finch looked sad for all of a moment before she shook her hand in the air. “I suppose if I had died yesterday, Maria Auditore would have been safe enough to keep terrorizing you until you gave. Phyllis destroyed their empire. Every dime they make is dependent on your goodwill. I suppose you thought that _Maria_ wanted Desmond’s secret kept to spare you the trauma. She gagged the whole family with threats and lies because all you ever had to do was say the word and those thieves and murderers masquerading as lawyers would end her.”

Malik very nearly sighed, stopped himself from expressing it only by the look of dawning _realization_ on Altair’s face. “Why didn’t Phyllis do it herself?”

“Maria is a nuisance but she never became a bigger problem than she was an asset,” Mrs. Finch said. “She’s a powerful ally once she’s been put into her place.”

“Thank you,” Altair said. “I wouldn’t have known if you hadn’t told me.” Then he cleared his throat and said, “I thought Grandmother didn’t like white roses. How did she have a whole wedding with them?”

And Mrs. Finch’s stories turned back to sepia tones, the age of the memories making them dusty but captivating in their own antique way.

\--

son-of-no-one: congrats to two wonderful people. But I hope to never host a wedding again (3m ago)

Altair found Desmond by the remains of the bar, mixing little shot glasses—one for each of the few family members that remained. Lucy was talking to Mary and Cristina, laughing at whatever they were telling her and nodding her head along to the cadence of their words.

Desmond narrowed his eyes at Altair when he stopped by the table and then cleared his throat, “I have something to tell you but you can’t tell anyone else.”

“About who?” Altair asked, “I have something to tell you too but you can’t tell anyone—except Lucy, maybe.”

“Ah, well you really can’t tell anyone what I’m about to tell you. Not for any reason.” Desmond turned around to look out at the dance floor. He waited for Altair to nod his agreement before he motioned with the jut of his chin at where Federico, Edward and Ezio were sitting on the stage. Ezio was leaning against his brother, half-asleep from liquor but Edward and Federico were swinging their legs over the side like little boys. The pair of them not doing much but keeping Ezio upright and watching the last of the tables being taken away by the men that were coming to tear down the wedding structures. “Edward and Federico have sex with one another. It might be past tense; I’m not clear on that.”

“What?” Altair demanded. He kept his voice quiet but that didn’t mean the information wasn’t deserving of a louder demand. He looked over at the two. Most of his memory regarding Edward was a black hole of information but bits and pieces of his earliest childhood painted the man as a hateful troll, living in the garden. He vaguely remembered that Federico would spend his time with him during the summer and once or twice he found them wrestling in the grass. Nothing in his memory seemed to end with them fucking. Yet, he was staring at them from across the dance floor and it didn’t _not_ make some awful kind of sense. (Of course, there was almost nothing that didn’t make sense in his family.) “That must be why they’re wearing each other’s shirts now.”

“What?” Desmond hissed at him. “They are not.”

“Yes they are,” Altair said. Then he turned around because if he kept staring, Federico would figure out he’d been told on. Altair wanted to ask how Desmond had come to have that sort of information and thought the how of it was probably as secret as the fact itself. “Don’t worry about Mama Maria, apparently I have controlling interest in everything the Auditore family owned prior to Grandmother’s death. Anything they’ve built since then can’t be worth more than they’ll lose if I decide I don’t like them anymore.”

Desmond wasn’t impressed but also not surprised to hear that. “How did you find that out?” He answered it before Altair could, “Mrs. Finch. I don’t want a war, Altair. A little respect might go a long way, but not a war.” He picked up a shot glass and handed it to him. 

“There wouldn’t be a war,” Altair countered. He took the glass that was offered to him and picked up another one to follow Desmond as he carried them toward the closest knot of people. “I don’t want a war either. I just want to be left alone.”

Desmond snorted. He handed the shot glass he was holding to Lucy who took it with a smile and a raised eyelid. “One last toast,” he said. “There’s more at the bar, everyone needs one.” Then he looked at Altair. “Do me a favor, before you ask the impossible, find a school you can tolerate. Take a year, teach yourself everything you need to know to manage what Grandma left you. The amount of power you have—I can’t imagine it and I trust you but I’d trust you more if you knew more about the empire you’re sitting on.”

Altair sighed. “I’ve been thinking about it. Malik’s school isn’t the worst one in the country.” But it was far, far from the best.

Everyone—Edward, Federico, Ezio, Cristina, Mary, Malik, Kadar, Claudia, Lucy, and Desmond was standing in a circle. They were all carrying the little shot glasses of unknown contents, all of them shifting on their feet. (Except Ezio who was frowning with blurry eyes and a half-disgusted stare at how he had not been given any more alcohol.) Desmond slid his arm around Lucy’s waist and lifted his glass.

“Thank you,” he said.

“To you,” Edward agreed, and it went in a chorus from one mouth to the next until it circled back to Altair. “To you,” he said and they knocked their glasses together in the middle and tipped the shots back to swallow the contents whole. (Except Kadar, one assumed.) 

They broke apart after, each of them going off in their separate ways. Travelling in sets of two or three. Malik stepped up next to him after Lucy pulled Desmond toward the house. His cheeks were rosy from the burn of the liquor in his throat. His voice was like a frog saying, “I’m ready to sleep for a few years. What about you?”

“Yeah,” Altair agreed. “Is someone taking you brother home?”

“Claudia said she’d take him home. Come on, we’re going to bed.” Malik pulled him toward the house.


	74. Chapter 74

> **Kadar**
> 
> We didn’t get home until 10
> 
> Mom was actually pretty gracious considering I showed up after dark with a woman.
> 
> Claudia slept in your bedroom last night.
> 
> I don’t know how observant the Auditore family is but there’s a good chance she now knows everything about you.
> 
> Just make sure she keeps liking you
> 
> And I think I’ll be fine

Malik woke up to London walking across his face. It was a very obnoxious habit that she had. He pushed her off the side of his face and she took it like the insult it was and proceeded to jump right back to where she had been. The only way to make her stop was to take her outside and so he dragged himself out of bed (after he realized Altair was not in his half of the bed) and found a pair of pants and a shirt that were decent. London’s leash was laying over the door knob and it took him three tries to get it on her collar while she ran in happy circles around his feet.

He stood outside for maybe fifteen minutes while the dog sniffed derisively at the well-trampled grass. Then he carried her back inside, missed the side staircase and ended up in the front room with the massive double staircases. For a moment, he sincerely considered going back to bed and rather than giving in to the impulse (where the dog would most certainly not let him sleep) he pulled his phone of his pocket. 

Altair answered on the fourth ring, distracted and dusty sounding, “I forgot to wake you up. I’m sorry.”

“Where are you?” Malik asked. “Somewhere in the house?”

“Yeah,” Altair said. The rustle of papers was audible across the phone. “My Grandmother’s office. Where are you? I’ll give you directions.” The absurdity of the necessity of directions being necessary to find an office made Malik roll his eyes. But he followed along the path that Altair laid out for him until he came to the open double doors of the office. It was a massive affair, set up with oversized furniture at the back wall, giving Phyllis the appearance of a monarch and the poor fools on the opposite side of her as lowly peasants come to beg.

Altair was at the desk, phone still pressed against his face (despite the fact Malik had hung up on him), staring at the papers that were spread everywhere. 

There was dust to an almost extreme extent, on every surface in the room. Malik stepped inside and the dog whined at him and sneezed almost immediately. He tugged at the leash and she gave (easily enough) and followed him in. “When was the last time someone was in here?”

“April eighth, nineteen ninety eight,” Altair said without looking up. Even the papers he was looking seemed to be filmed with dust. He didn’t bother to mention it was the day his Grandmother had died because it didn’t occur to him that Malik might not know or that he would be interested in knowing why that precise date was important. “I don’t hate my Aunt Maria.” The statement seemed to arise from nothing. 

Malik sat in the chair opposite the desk, sank into the plush of it and felt very small in comparison to the desk, much less the person behind it. London tried to pull him up again so she could get to Altair. “I don’t think you have to.”

“Shouldn’t I?” Altair leaned back into the massive back of the chair. It creaked when he did and dust rose from it in a lethal gray cloud. “She’ll do anything to keep the public image. _Anything_. Mrs. Finch said she only wants the money. But, she never took money from Grandma. There was a deal—you could stay with the family or you could take a settlement. William and Maria are the only ones that didn’t take the money.” A sneer crossed his face at the mention of William’s name. “Mama Maria hurt Desmond. I didn’t have any reason not to like her before that. I think about now, I think: they always treated me like I was an ignorant child.” He looked down at the papers. “I thought it was because they didn’t want me. I thought it was because I was just a burden they had to take on to save face but what if they treated me that way so I’d never find out about this?”

“I don’t think there’s a way to ever be sure of it. I mean, unless you believe that if you ask you’ll be told the truth.” Malik nodded at the papers, “what did you find out?”

“A lot. For instance, anyone who had custody of me earned an allowance. I knew that I got an allowance once I was emancipated but I had assumed it was the money I would have been given at eighteen. I also learned that if I was unhappy with my care at Mama Maria’s house that I could have come back here and lived with Mrs. Finch. I learned that in the event William Miles was allowed near Desmond or I, the lawyers were to immediately remove both of us from Mama Maria’s custody and take everything from the Auditore family. I knew Grandmother took everyone’s inheritance. Except Desmond. Oh, if Mama Maria failed to pay Edward every year, the lawyers would—there’s just pages and pages of commandments. There is no way Mama Maria doesn’t know about this.” He flipped all the papers over again and they fell with a thump audible at a good distance. Then he rubbed his face with his dusty hands, left gray streaks on his skin, and sighed. 

“Did you know,” Malik said, “my Mother seduced my father before they were married. That kind of thing is frowned on where she’s from.”

Altair snorted. “Your Mom?”

“Yes. She made up her mind that she was going to move here. She gave up her entire family to come here; they didn’t like my father and they didn’t like her plans to move here. They said her children would grow up faithless in America. My Dad was already sick when they moved here. He died within the first two years. She’s been on her own since then. Just her, just us. She’s not perfect.”

Oh and the face Altair made at that, all remembrance of old hurt and disbelief making for a confusion of ignorance and arrogance. “How old was she when your Dad died?”

“Twenty two? I think. That’s not the point. What I know about my Mother is that she is strong willed. Her expectations are astronomical. She believes with absolute conviction in her faith and in her morals. I know that she will work until she collapses and she will not complain about it. I know that sometimes she missed our birthdays, sometimes she wasn’t home often enough. I know I had to look after my brother. I know she didn’t see that I needed her and I didn’t think she could love me when she found out.”

“I can’t imagine Lamah would ever find a reason she couldn’t love you. I don’t even know how you believed she could have,” Altair said.

“Because as children we don’t see our parents as real people. They are two dimensional representations of people, a long list of traits that we rely on but don’t question the source of. My Mom is a whole person but not one that I know entirely.” 

“I know Mama Maria well enough to know that the only thing that put an end to this escalation of intimidation is the understanding that I know she doesn’t have power over me. If I ever needed a reason to hate her, the fact that the basis of our relationship has to be laid out in this,” he picked up the thick packet of papers and dropped them again, “would be it. I want her to be my Aunt; the woman I remember from when I was a child. I don’t think she was ever that person.”

“Maybe she’s both,” Malik said. “Do what you have to. Try to remember that people are complicated.”

Altair sighed again. “We’re supposed to have lunch with Mrs. Finch and then we can go. Unless you want to stay.”

“No, not particularly.” 

Altair nodded and then got up. He grabbed the stack of papers and came around the desk to pick London up. She attacked his face with her little pink tongue and her urgent yelps for attention. He talked to her like she was a child and Malik snorted at the utter ridiculousness of it.

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> I’m not as out of town as I thought I’d be.
> 
> Your Mom asked me to have lunch with her. 
> 
> So do you want a ride home from school?
> 
> I have never turned down a ride

Kadar met Claudia out in the student parking lot. She was sitting in her car, frowning at her phone, looking simultaneously bored and outraged. He stopped by the driver’s side window (because there was no telling if the doors were unlocked) and waited for her to look up. She gave him the finger and then motioned at the seat next to her.

In the car, he said, “my Mom wanted to have lunch with you?”

“Well, I am an older woman that you barely know who has had possession of you all weekend, brought you home late and is going to prom with you.” Claudia shrugged. “As far as gentle intimidation goes, I do feel reproached. Almost as if I have disappointed a Mother I do not have.” The sound of wonder in her voice made the words all the funnier.

“That’s my Mom,” Kadar said. “Lucky she was gentle with you. She was not gentle with Altair.”

Claudia’s smile was sad but the noise she made was all humor. “He must be used to that treatment by now. He would not know what to do with gentleness.” Then she pulled out of the parking spot and muttered dirty Italian curses at the other drivers while she waited for the opportunity to get out to the street. Once they were on their way back to his house, she said, “but, for the record, I do not want to have sex with you. I do not wish to date you. You are too young.”

“I don’t want to date you,” Kadar agreed, “I don’t have the energy.”

“I am very high maintenance. So long as that is settled.” She stopped in front of his house but did not park the car. “I will see you Saturday? I’ll send you a picture of the dress that I chose so you can do your best to coordinate with it.”

“Perfect,” he said. But he hesitated with his hand on the door handle. “Back at the wedding, you said, ‘don’t give up your soul; you never know when you’ll miss it’.” She nodded. “You haven’t given up your soul. Get a puppy, take a vacation from your family.”

“Things are not always so simple,” Claudia said.

“No, they are that simple. What complicates them are how we value what we think we’ll lose.” He wanted to hug her again but she was rolling her eyes at him. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> I realize now it’s inevitable that Desmond would tell you
> 
> Please stop staring at me
> 
> Stop being ugly
> 
> Not even plastic surgery can save my face. 
> 
> What are you going to do about my Mother?
> 
> I have scheduled a meeting for Wednesday
> 
> That’s not an answer.
> 
> If I thought I could tell you without you telling her I would
> 
> I don’t mean that offensively. She’s your Mom
> 
> I take no offense. Except that you called me ugly.
> 
> Your kid’s cute.
> 
> Thanks.

Altair hadn’t expected the Auditore brothers to still be at the mansion. The whole damn family flocked together when there was any state of emergency among them. He considered Mama Maria getting bitch slapped in public to be very near an emergency. But they were there, at lunch: Federico and his family, Ezio looking gray and hungover, and Edward. He showed up but he didn’t bring his children or the other members of his small family. 

“They already ate,” he said, “and the kids are playing outside.” There was a chorus of general disbelief at the excuse that prompted Edward to give them all the finger before he took his place at the table. 

There wasn’t enough space in Mrs. Finch small apartment for everyone to sit comfortably but tuck in tight and rub their elbows against one another while they tried to eat without spilling anything. The small talk was listless, detailing where they had to go as soon as they left the house. All of them returning to work or obligations (except Altair, who had very little to do at any given time).

Mrs. Finch sat at the head of the table, looking gray and _tired_ with a smile on her face. She had not touched any of her food, but wrapped herself up in a blanket for warmth. Vincenzio escaped his Mother’s hold and came around to climb onto Mrs. Finch. He was a big-headed kid, with dark hair that laid flat across his skull and his mother’s pretty eyes. His mouth was small, and cherub-shaped set in the center of his round cheeks. He clutched the remains of his lunch in one hand and leaned back against Mrs. Finch, kicking his feet until he was settled. 

“I’ll get him,” Federico said. (But first he would have to find a way to extract himself from the tight spot he was sitting in.)

“No,” Mrs. Finch said, “let him stay.” She rubbed the little boy’s hair and rested her cheek against the top of his head. Her eyes closed and she let out a soft, happy sigh. “I held all of you when you were this small. Every single one of you great, giant men were as small as this once.” And she opened her eyes. She kissed Vincenzio on his temple and he didn’t seem to notice or care much about it. 

“Not all of us are big,” Altair said. He smirked at Ezio who muttered a curse back at him. 

“When Phyllis was a child, she was the sweetest thing. There was a time, we were friends. I remember her before she changed, back when she was in the kitchen with my Mother, learning how to cook. She used to dream about her family, about how many babies she would have. She said, _when I have sons, I’ll teach them to be tall and strong. I’ll teach them to be fair and compassionate. I’ll teach them to listen and to wait to speak. I’ll teach them when to be brave and when to be scared._.” Mrs. Finch smiled at that echo of memory. She looked up at them, “my precious boys, you are not babies anymore. Not a single one of you. I won’t be here much longer, I need to know, before I go, that you won’t be scared anymore. _You_ are the future of our family. _You_ are the survivors. Protect one another, be kind to one another.” And her eyes went pink as her voice went thick. “Because I never thought,” and her voice broke there, “I’d ever have you all here again. Don’t give this up again.”

Vincenzio twisted around to look at Mrs. Finch’s face and then slid off her lap to go back to his Mother. 

Mrs. Finch sniffed. “Don’t be scared, be brave, boys.”

“Of course we will,” Edward said. Ezio nodded his head and Federico made a minimal noise of agreement. Altair smiled because he couldn’t think of anything at all to say, but he reached his hand across the table and held it out for Mrs. Finch to wrap her fingers around.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Mom said you’re coming home tomorrow
> 
> is this like witness protection?
> 
> Might be. Altair said he just had to resolve this thing with his Aunt.
> 
> I’m supposed to start looking for apartments close to the college.
> 
> I thought I would pack up my room if I’m going to move.
> 
> Are you taking both the cats?
> 
> Why wouldn’t I?
> 
> Well, I don’t think Sailor would like London
> 
> Sailor doesn’t even like Aquila.

The cat in question—so very like his brother in temperament—was lying at the end of Kadar’s bed, soaking up the artificial light and the heat of the lamp that he’d bought on a whim a few months ago. His voluminous white fur was spread out around him like a cloud as he blinked slowly back at Kadar. 

“You are his cat,” Kadar said (as if Sailor had any reason to know he had been the subject of a conversation). “And you don’t like Aquila.” 

A full sixty percent of the time, Kadar wasn’t even sure where Aquila was. The skinny black cat was fond of hiding just about anywhere, and showing up for food and new cat toys. He could be found reliably in Malik’s room if Malik were actually home. Absent his brother’s continued presence, the cat disappeared into the apparently endless hiding places in their house. 

Kadar leaned forward to lay out on his belly and stroked his fingers down the cat’s back. “You’ll need to get over that.”

Sailor meowed dismissively at that idea. Then he rolled just far enough to push his paw back at Kadar’s fingers to hold him off. He started purring while he did it; the same smug arrogance that he’d displayed as soon as he reached the full weight of adulthood. The bastard was far too sure of himself, far too removed from the half-drowned kitten Kadar pulled out of the rainwater. 

“You can’t eat London either,” Kadar said. “Even if she looks like a toy.” He rested his head on his arm and waited for Sailor to give in to being shown affection.

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> How is he?
> 
> Its six in the morning
> 
> Oh sorry. It’s not here.
> 
> Well he’s not in bed
> 
> I’ll go find him.
> 
> Aren’t you supposed to be on your honeymoon?
> 
> I am. Just, let me know how he is.

Malik wasn’t prepared to be awake at six in the morning. He hadn’t even gone to bed until sometime after midnight after he’d finally worn down Altair’s aggressive fidgeting and dragged him to bed. Waking up without him wasn’t a surprise (not even a disappointment, all things considered). 

It didn’t take long to find him. He was outside on the balcony, wearing nothing but the pants he’d gone to sleep in the night before, staring at the city waking up beneath them. He glanced up when Malik stepped outside and looked at the screen of his phone. “I didn’t want to wake you up,” he said by way of explanation.

“Don’t worry about it,” Malik said. He sat down in the seat next to Altair and yawned. The chairs were close enough to the railing on the balcony that it was easy to put your feet up on it. He wiggled around until he found a comfortable place to sit. “Is it something you can talk about?”

“No,” Altair said. “I mean—there’s nothing to talk about.” 

No nothing at all. Not with having to intimidate his Aunt, or Mrs. Finch illness or Desmond’s wedding, or any of those things that might be upsetting. There was nothing at all to talk about. Malik could understand though, that need to just sit and think it over. He had done it enough in his life. “Well,” Malik said. “I’m going to go back to sleep. I’m there when you need me—for whatever. Don’t let yourself be miserable and alone.”

Altair nodded. Malik stood up and shuffled close enough to lean down and kiss his forehead. 

Exhaustion made it easy enough to fall asleep once he was back in bed. 

He woke up again when Altair came back to bed, all cool to the touch from the early morning spring he’d been marinating in. His hands were chilliest under the blankets when they went looking for the familiar warm places on Malik’s body. He shivered at the touch and frowned as he twisted away. “Too cold.”

“What do you do to comfort yourself when you don’t have someone to have sex with?” Altair asked. His tone wasn’t very accusatory (and since his hands were under the blankets working Malik’s clothes loose it was for the best) but low-toned and ponderous. “I’ve never met someone more deliberate about comfort sex in my whole life.”

Malik grumbled again (at being woke up) as he rolled onto his back. Altair followed after him fitting neatly right between his legs, laying against him with that perfect balance of pressure and weight. Malik’s hand was warm across Altair’s back. He could feel the ridges that were pressed into his skin from sitting in the chair for so long. “I read and think about how much better I’d feel if I could have sex.” He stretched and opened his eyes just far enough to squint. Altair didn’t look convinced about what he said. Malik leaned up to kiss him, just missed his mouth and kissed his cheek instead. 

Altair tipped his head and kissed him back.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Come open the door
> 
> Why don’t you have your key?
> 
> I forgot it.
> 
> I’m on my way

Malik looked hassled. It was a very distinct look that he got whenever something did not resolve itself as quickly or as nicely as he would have liked. The sort of look that settled like a storm cloud on his face and couldn’t be removed. Kadar was supposed to be studying because he was supposed to care if he passed his finals with good grades. He was also supposed to care about the fact that he had gotten letters back from colleges that he only applied to because the combined weight of his Mother, his brother and his school counselor’s expectations bullied him into it. Mostly, he had spent all the time between getting home from school and letting Malik in lying on his bed, petting Sailor and thinking obsessively unhappy thoughts about how he didn’t want to give up the cat.

Altogether, that must have been why he just sighed when Malik dropped his bag in the first chair he got to. It must have been why he said, “want to order pizza and watch stupid movies? Mom’s not supposed to be home for a few hours.”

Malik looked at the old clock on the shelf by the back wall. “Why? Did she have to work late?”

“No, Mr. Jacobs asked her to go out to dinner and after she lectured me for ten minutes about how I was expected to study for my finals, she decided to go.” 

“Why are you setting _me_ up to get lectured?” Malik asked. Almost as if summoned by magic, Aquila appeared (out of thin air) and circled around Malik and meowed for attention. His brother crouched low enough to pick the cat up and held him against his chest. “You should study for your finals. We can order pizza though.”

“Doesn’t matter what I should do. I look at those books and I think about the futility of trying. I’m going to end up at the community college and therefore there’s no reason to worry too much right now about,” he motioned up toward his room and the sum of the useless knowledge he was supposed to memorize. While he stood there, Malik’s face mutated from fond affection for his precious black kitten to generalized annoyance at anyone dismissing knowledge and finally settled on flat-out anger about Kadar’s very realistic prospects.

“Why are you going to the community college? You said you got acceptance letters.”

“Money, ambition and mental instability,” Kadar said. “I mean, if you want me to present my argument in essay form I might be able to produce something in about six months. But it’ll say the same thing. I don’t want to do anything. Mom won’t accept that, so I can take general education and pre-reqs at the community college.”

While he expected a fight, Malik just sighed and nodded his head. “That sounds fair. How are your grades right now? How dependent on passing these exams well?”

“The only class I don’t have an A in is French. I do have a high C and that’s the best I’ve ever gotten.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket, “I’ll buy the pizza? We can get the breadsticks?”

Malik sighed and Aquila butted his head against his chin to demand more affection. The cat had figured out very early on that he had to cling to Malik by the clothes if he wanted to be held and petted simultaneously. “Can we get the chocolate cake too?”

“Sure. Double cheese?” Kadar asked. He was already dialing the phone so he didn’t see Malik nod but he assumed that he did. When he looked up, Malik was already dragging his bag up again and walking toward the stairs. Aquila was clinging to his shoulder, meowing at him as they walked. 

It was ten minutes (or so) before Malik came back wearing pajamas and carrying the usual stack of stupid movies they watched when the two of them had no will to be productive, useful members of society (or even their own household). They flopped onto the couch, and the chair and slouched into the usual positions after they put the first disk in. “So what is going on with you and Claudia?” Malik asked after the opening sequence of the movie.

“She’s lonely. She’s isolated. She wants to either leave or stand up to her family but she’s deeply afraid that if she does that they will completely ostracize her and I guess in that situation, for her, any parent is better than none.” Kadar snorted when he said it. He didn’t know enough about the Auditore parents to make a true assessment of what they were like. “Mom had lunch with her.”

Malik made an annoyed noise with his mouth. Then he huffed a sigh. “Maybe we should get Mom to adopt them all. That whole miserable family needs someone to teach them how to behave.” But then almost immediately he followed it up with, “did you know that Edward is thirty five?”

“That’s only six years younger than Mom.” But also, “how did all of them end up so fucked up? We’re not taking them in. There’s no reason to subject Mom to that bullshit. I mean, Altair maybe. He needs someone that can be patient with him and still tell him to get his shit together. Claudia—maybe. She can adopt Desmond. I feel like she’d just make him cry a lot though. You know that thing she does, where she gives you tea.”

Malik nodded. But he didn’t smile.

“Is it bad?” Kadar asked.

Malik shrugged. “I don’t know. Altair is upset. The stupid brothers look like they’ve been gutted. Mrs. Finch looks like she’s going to die any minute. God knows what the Aunt is going to do.” He made another impatient noise. “Apparently, intimidation and threats are just business as normal for the family though.”

“What part of that upsets you?” Kadar asked. He didn’t even have the energy to look shamefaced when Malik glared at him. (He also didn’t have the energy to expend on trying to figure out his brother’s mindset.)

“I don’t even know. I mean—I want Altair to be okay. That’s unrealistic. I can’t do anything to help him. It’s frustrating.” But then the doorbell rang and Kadar went to fetch the pizza. They lapsed back into silence while they ate. It was easier to watch the stupid movies and think about nothing.

\--

> **Ezio**
> 
> Are you at home?
> 
> Yeah

Altair had not slept well the night before. His good intentions (going through the motions of preparing for bed, lying in bed, saying good night to Malik through texts) had almost immediately been dashed. He sat on his bed with the papers he’d taken from his Grandmother’s office, leafing through the papers, rereading the graying words until they made his head hurt. It was almost dawn when he finally fell asleep (thinking over-and-over about how to approach Mama Maria).

Breakfast had consisted of dry cereal that he poured into a bowl with the intention of adding milk (for simplicity’s sake more than anything) but he’d gotten sidetracked by staring at his phone (no messages). Some part of him, the cool and entirely rational part, felt nothing at all about the turn of events. That part was still as stone, unwavering in its conviction. Then again, there was that bit of him that had survived: still a sobbing child, full of belligerence and fresh wounds. He _craved_ the simplicity of cold logic and couldn’t shake the anger that came with this final full realization of the bitter unfairness of his life. 

He was marinating in daydreams of what his life could have been if his birth hadn’t killed his Mother. In what he would have been if his Father hadn’t been convinced to give him up long before he even knew he was dying. They were stupid dreams, perfected images of an impossible alternate reality. They didn’t comfort him, exactly, because there was no truth in them. 

So he thought of Grandmother. He thought of the soul of her philosophy spread out in those graying words on yellowed papers. And he drew in a breath and let it out again. (He thought of her words, her delicate fingers around the steel-sharp-pen at her desk, when she said, “if there must be war, leave no survivors. Kill them all.”)

The knock on his door was an unexpected interruption. He dusted his fingers off on the pants he slept in. London started barking, following after his heels as he went to see who it was. One of the maids was in the house but he had asked them (very specifically) never to answer the door. There was no way to know who he actually wanted to deal with and there was no sense in putting them in the center of it.

Ezio was standing on the other side of the door. He could have stepped out of a magazine: every crease of his clothing was precise, every part of his face was perfect. His hair—black and inky—was styled with such delicate artistry that there was no way it hadn’t been deliberate. It was only his eyes, the only part of his face that he’d never managed to school into the same-old-routine. His mouth was smiling but his eyes were simply _exhausted_. “Good morning,” he said by way of greeting. He took his phone out of his pocket when he followed Altair into the apartment. Ezio took note of Altair’s lack of shirt as he set his phone on the closest table. “My brother has already left,” he added.

“He said h—” 

Retrospectively, it shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was when Ezio punched him in the face. The shock of it was _nauseating_ in those first seconds. The pop of pain so intense that it made his head spin. He threw his arm out to catch himself and only barely managed to grab the edge of the couch. It shifted with a screech under the weight of his fall. London was barking loud-yelping-squeals. When Altair righted himself, he pressed a hand across the raised red welt on his face.

Ezio shrugged out of his coat. “We are all traitors, my Mother’s children. We did not side with her when you went to war. It’s a wound she has not forgiven.” He threw the coat over the chair. “All children must part ways with their Mothers. If we did not, humanity would never evolve.”

“This is a bad idea,” Altair said. Not because he hadn’t ever wrestled with the brothers. Or because he couldn’t tolerate being hit. It wasn’t a bad idea because he was due to intimidate Mama Maria in six-hours-or-less. It was a bad idea because there was a thick-black-smog in his chest and violence made it turn to _fire_. 

“I’ve had far worse,” Ezio assured him. Then he balled up his fists again and moved to punch Altair again, in almost exactly the same place. When Altair blocked that punch he got hit in the ribs instead. “You’re not very good at this,” Ezio said. And then almost as quickly he added, “don’t hit me in the face.” 

It must have been the anger that broke in Altair’s body because he didn’t even feel the starburst blossom of pain from getting punched in the ribs. He didn’t feel anything but a sudden intense vibration of _nothing_ so encompassing that it stripped away the layers of hurt-and-anger-and-fear. “Rather get your ribs broken?”

“Yes,” Ezio said bluntly. And when he smiled that time, just before Altair hit him back, the smirk reached his eyes. 

They circled the living room. Ezio aimed for his face with unerring accuracy, like the prominent bones of his hand had some manner of homing device for Altair’s jaw. It was _frustrating_ to be struck in the face when he had to maneuver himself into prime positions to hit Ezio in the ribs. 

Somewhere, outside the din of noise in his head, beyond the vibrating nothing, he thought London must have been barking. Inside the close circle of the fight, he could only hear the draw and release of his own breath and the creaking tightness of his fists. When it popped, that bubble of frustration, he punched Ezio so hard in the face it knocked him sideways over the back of the couch. 

There was no sound at all when he reached down to drag Ezio back up. His fist tore into the shirt as it twisted around his fingers. Ezio was heavy-as-hell, flailing at an angle. There was blood at the corner of his mouth and a livid red streak across his face. Altair hit him again, across the face, and Ezio shouted something incomprehensible at him. 

There were words, of course, a filter of words. Things that Ezio was saying. The echo to the motion of his mouth. Each syllable out of order from the one behind it, not trailing obediently behind the one in front. Altair was going to hit him again (and again, and one more time) but Ezio lifted his legs off the floor, wrapped them around his waist and slapped both hands around his ears before he bashed their heads together.

They went, all together, tumbling over the back of the couch, crashed into the table in the center and landed in a heap of fallen remotes and magazines. The table was overturned to the side, caught under one of Ezio’s legs. The couch was knocked backward and falling back into place again.

“Do I call 911?” was an interruptive voice from the side. His maid, all pink in the face, clutching London to her chest, was gripping her phone tight enough to snap it into pieces. 

Altair groaned at the question. His face hurt without the rage to dull it. His fists were blisters. He looked sideways at Ezio, who was already rolling onto his belly to push himself up onto his knees. “Naw,” he said. “You good?”

Ezio sat back on his ass, back against the overturned table. His face was swelling on one side, there was blood in drips and fat drops on his shirt front and more on his sleeve when he rubbed it against the corner of his mouth. “You’re an asshole,” was his answer. He groaned as he stretched his legs out in front of him. One of his hands clutched at his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt.

“You can go,” Altair said to her. “Leave the dog.” He dragged himself up to sit against the couch. London came bounding over to him, hopped into his lap and put her paws against his chest with an insistent worry that would have been more tolerable if she wasn’t pushing on sore spots. 

“Bitch,” Ezio muttered at him. He was feeling around the wound on his face with his fingertips and after a moment sneered at him. There was no venom in his voice when he said, “you hit harder than I remember. Perhaps I should apologize to Leonardo more sincerely.”

Altair snorted at that and it broke into a laugh in his throat so that the two of them (shit heads, both of them) were laughing like it was _funny_ that one time Ezio invited him to beat someone’s head in. He laughed until his shoulders were shaking and Ezio was all red in the face and on his neck. The hysteria faded into hiccups and Altair felt intensely _lonely_ not even a full three foot from Ezio. He said, “maybe. How the fuck did you even get him to sleep with you after that? Didn’t he know it was you?”

Ezio motioned at his face. “I told him. He did not seem concerned with my guilt.” Then he sighed. “What will you do to my Mother?”

“Whatever she makes me do,” Altair said. He shrugged. “I don’t want this, Ezio. I don’t fucking want any of it. I never wanted to challenge her. I never wanted to be _opposition_. Fuck.” And since they were there, all beaten and aching anyway, “I feel like I’m thirteen years old again, waiting for her to—want me? Accept me?”

And there, Ezio made the smallest of noises, the acknowledgement of a stupid idea. “My Mother is not that sort of mother. I love her, as all good sons love their mother. I was never wounded by her. I was not unwanted by her. I was not unloved by her. I am safe with her. Never will I hear a harsher word than disappointment. Never will I suffer her wrath. Never have I spent an hour pondering if her acceptance and love hinges upon some unnamed criteria. I am now and have always been wholly beloved by my parents.” But the words did not make him happy. Every word, heaped one upon the other, was heavier with guilt and worry and pain. His shoulders, when he lifted and dropped them again, were breaking under the full realization of those words. “I don’t want to have to _choose_.”

“You’re not stupid,” Altair said. “No matter how you’d like to pretend otherwise. Oblivious, yes. Happily ignorant I could believe. But you aren’t stupid. I _don’t_ want any of this. I _don’t_ have a choice. She won’t _quit_ until I make her quit.”

Ezio nodded. He looked down at his hands, at the blood on his cuffs and then looked sideways. There were tears in his eyes. They didn’t soak into his voice when he said, “I know that as I know there has never been a choice. I have been silent in the face of cruelty for a very long time. I said nothing to save Desmond. I stood by while they overlooked Federico. I kept my mouth shut while she bullied Claudia.” He licked his lips. “I have offered bandages to wounds that I could have prevented and even when I deserve the worst of my brother and my sister—and you, and Desmond—I have not gotten it. There is no _choice_. I will go where my brother goes.” 

“It doesn’t ha—”

“Ha,” Ezio said. “Ours is a business first and a family second, these days. We weren’t always. I think the others have forgotten.” Then he drew in a long breath through his nose and blinked the tears out of his eyes. “Thank you for the fight. I feel better.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Altair said. He didn’t move to get up yet either. Looked at Ezio’s face (and the ugly bruise forming on it), “I wouldn’t recommend doing it again.”

“Neither would I,” Ezio said as he stood up. He held his hand down to Altair and helped him up to his feet. They stood there awkwardly next to one another for too long a minute. Ezio sighed again.

“I haven’t forgotten,” Altair said. “I remember what she was like.” It wasn’t much of a compromise between his intentions and Ezio’s confused loyalties but it was _something_. 

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> So how is he?
> 
> I’m not actually there 
> 
> You are on your honeymoon
> 
> He’d be angry if he found out you were asking about him
> 
> Why aren’t you there?
> 
> Why did you leave him alone?
> 
> That’s why I’m not texting him.
> 
> He’s supposed to come back tomorrow

It was Wednesday afternoon, very suddenly. Malik didn’t expect his Mother to come home from work early (because in all his memory he could only remember it happening twice when it didn’t involve a medical emergency) and was therefore still in his pajamas when she found him eating Chow Mein noodles out of the can. 

“I didn’t think you’d be here for another three hours,” he said. It wasn’t much of a defense (it wasn’t one at all) but it did earn him a smile. He considered putting the lid back on the can and turned to offer it to her instead. She took a small handful. “Everything okay?”

“I think so,” Mother said. She sat at the rickety old table and nibbled at the noodle. “I had a very nice time yesterday. Sometimes,” she said with a half-smile, “I think that I have been foolish to deny myself that freedom for so long. Sometimes, when I am laughing carelessly with this man I am not married to, I think of your father. I wonder what he would think.”

“Do you think he wanted you to be alone?” Malik asked. Or maybe, “do you think he’d—be upset about us?”

“I did not know your father for very long. We were robbed of the longevity that we wanted. I do know, absolutely, that your father would have wanted us to be happy with ourselves. He would want to know that I am happy with my life, that I am not lonely, that I am not struggling. Kadar is very like your Father. If you wonder what he would think of you, only wonder what your brother thinks. Their early lives are very different but they are otherwise very much the same.” 

Malik put the lid back on the can of noodles and pushed them toward the wall. “When are you going to let us meet him? Mr. Jacobs?”

Oh, and Mother’s smile was unlike any he’d ever seen on her face. She had always been an adult in his eyes, someone with an unspecified age known only to be ‘older’ than he was. So it was strange to see the smile on her face, little and secretive, and consider how _young_ she was. “You have met him,” she said. “Many times.”

“As your boss. Will we get to meet him as your boyfriend?”

Mother shrugged. “In time. If he has his way, you would meet him as my husband.” There was a flutter of pink in her cheeks that he’d never seen before. 

Malik’s mouth dropped open and Mother’s whole face went red. “Did he ask?”

“He has asked if he could ask,” Mother corrected. “He has asked if he should meet my sons, if he would need your approval. I tease him that he will never get your approval. He says that you are not scary at all; that you’ve always liked him.”

That was a joke considering he had only ever met Mr. Jacobs as her boss, that he’d never spent any real time with the man and that the only interactions they’d had were brief and semi-awkward. (Although, pining after his Mother explained most of Mr. Jacobs attempts to talk to him at office parties.) “I want you to be happy,” Malik said. “If he makes you happy, he has whatever approval he needs.” She nodded like _she knew_ that already. “So what’s stopping you?”

“Kadar,” Mother said. “I cannot forgive myself if I am blind to his needs now. I could not see yours.” Her smile didn’t waver though. “And, maybe I am waiting because I enjoy being chased. Your father did not chase me. I wish he would have.” 

“It is nice, isn’t it?” Malik said.

“Mine is not quite as intense as yours,” Mother said. She stood up then and dumped the rest of the noodles she didn’t eat into the trash can. She dusted her hands over top of it and then went toward the doorway. “I haven’t had an afternoon off in years. I think we should go pick up your brother. Buy him something nice for his prom.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> I love you.
> 
> Is everything alright?
> 
> Yes. 
> 
> And I love you.
> 
> oh. I love you

Altair met Maria in neutral territory. He had intended to approach her with fine kid gloves on. In his mind’s eye he thought he would appeal to her better nature, perhaps try to reason with her on the basis of their mutual bloodline. (Although, invoking Calvin into any conversation was the very last thing one should do in a conversation among the cousins.) But there were bruises on his face far darker than her poorly concealed red patch and there were welts on his chest in the shape of her son’s fists.

He dropped into his seat opposite her, bold-faced with brashness, and dropped the three inch stack of papers into the space between her water glass and the edge of the table. “You haven’t been following the rules, Mama Maria.”

While he had expected a fight, and while he had prepared to offer threats, he had not prepared to accept the sad resignation on her face. Her fingers touched at the papers, they grimaced across the dust that still clung to it and then lifted away with a sneer of distaste. She picked it up and set it to the side with more care than he had shown. “The rules are very subjective, Altair. If you read the document you would understand there are precisely two ironclad rules. I pay for Edward’s irresponsible life and I keep William away from you and Desmond. I have done nothing but follow those rules.”

A waiter came to the table and Altair waved him off before he could so much as open his mouth. He didn’t sit up but stay leaning back into the chair, head tipped to the side, hands resting against his lap. “I don’t want to do this.”

“I know,” Mama Maria said but it wasn’t _understanding_ , it was _pity_. “If your precious Mother had had her way, you would be living in some tent in a barely discovered part of the world, eating worms and learning languages nobody will still be around to speak in fifty years.” There was no joy in the statement; just a cold testament of fact. “This is the very last life that she would have wanted for you. And the only one that Phyllis could have imagined. Why else did she leave so much to _you_?”

“I am taking Edward’s case out of your care. You will no longer be responsible for him.” That much he had decided long before he settled on how to handle the rest. Altair did sit up straight then. He pulled his chair up to the table like a proper boy. 

“He should always have drawn a check from the funds that were left for your care. It was a punishment that I had to take it on, a way for Phyllis to spit into Giovanni’s eye long after she was dead.” Every word was perfectly measured and soft. The sort of words she used in the California war room, when she plotted out exactly how she was going to control public opinion (and her family). “I’m pleased to see you are finally taking some responsibility. Perhaps your new one-armed lover is not entirely without merit.”

“The time has come that we stop pretending, Maria. I have let you treat me like a child. I have let you control me. I have given you _power_ and you have enjoyed it. We are not family from this day forward. Ours is a business arrangement. My offer is this: so long as you keep away from my family—from Desmond, from Lucy, from Malik and anyone that is known to be associated to them—I will leave you be for now.”

Mama Maria rolled her eyes at those words, looked to the side with a small sigh and then back at him. “Why would I take such an unattractive deal? You have only just found out about this,” her hand touched at the paper, “do you think we’ve been idle these past thirteen years?”

Altair did not smile. “My offer allows you to enjoy the comfort of your money while you still have it. It assures you that you will not have to battle to keep it, that you will not face public discrimination for an ongoing war that you will ultimately lose. It gives you the necessary time to prepare a retirement fund, if you would like to call it that.”

“What will happen in a few years?” Mama Maria asked. “Will you change your mind?”

“No,” Altair said. “Don’t play stupid. They didn’t follow you out of that party, Maria.” He sighed then. “When I was a child, they told me that you wanted a family more than you wanted money. I don’t know why that changed or if it was never true. It’s none of my business anymore. I only know that, absent some great change in the present circumstances, you will lose both.”

The words must have struck her somewhere in the chest because it turned her passive face into something ugly. Her words weren’t measured or soft when they came but a hiss of Italian, all spiteful and bitter. “You think you know my children better than I do? They would never side with a selfish little boy like you. A mongrel that never learned table manners—you’re a disgrace to our name.”

“You can either accept the deal to buy yourself time to prepare for the inevitable or you can deny it and live with the consequences.” His heart was jackhammering in his chest, that last bit of him that was a stupid child throwing temper tantrums and begging for love by lashing out against it was holding his breath waiting to be denied. 

Mama Maria stared hatefully at the stack of papers. “Why?” she asked. “You did not care for so long.”

“Your fate was sealed the moment I found out what happened to Desmond. You must have known that. This has all been— _borrowed time_.” The waiter tried to come over again and Altair spared him only a single glare to send him back away again. Then he looked at Mama Maria, still clenching her teeth and looking at anything but him. “Why did you allow it?”

“Desmond was a compromise,” Mama Maria said, “it was never important whether or not he was telling the truth. Giovanni did not want him. He had no use for a son who refused to obey his father. There are—certain things about my sons that my husband finds most distasteful. I gave him Desmond. It worked exactly how I thought it might. You see, Federico was born unhappy and obedient and he _hates_ it. So father and son united in their assault and wounds that would have divided them were healed for a moment.” There was no _shame_ in her voice when she spoke. There was no _regret_.

“It didn’t matter what it did to Desmond?”

There Mama Maria inclined her head like she was offering him the sincerest pity again. “The only person Desmond has ever _mattered_ to is you.” She said the words like they were a waste. “Nobody else would have cared. If you need proof of it, look at what was allowed—each of them giving complacent permission. Mrs. Finch who disapproves of me so much but didn’t speak up against me when I took you. Ezio, who knew the truth about William, who laughed at his brother’s crude jokes. The lawyers who never called to speak to him. Even Desmond, always so silent, still allows it to this day. Always the martyr.”

There was no _name_ for the wealth of hate that rose out of the pit of his stomach. It went cold in the whole of his body so that he was (for a moment at least) a being made of something so painfully inhuman he couldn’t comprehend anything but the anger and the truth of the words. “My Grandmother told me, if you believe in something hard enough it will become true. It is a nice face you have put on, Maria. But its only one of many. When you have lost your children and your money, I hope that you have a face left to wear. I hope you have a truth to believe that is strong enough to keep you. Take my deal or deny it.”

“I accept your deal,” Maria said. 

Altair nodded and stood up. He was _shaking_ everywhere on the inside (and nowhere on the outside). He didn’t spare her a second glance as he walked out. The waiter that had flitted nervously back and forth at the side of the table flinched when he saw him. Altair made it all the way outside, out into the fresh air, down the sidewalk a ways before his hands started to shake. The coil of _anger_ overwhelmed him. His hands itch to break across bricks so that he had to bite his teeth so tight together his jaw ached. 

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> Can I come tonight?
> 
> Yes.
> 
> Are you okay?
> 
> I just want to see you.

Kadar was gloriously happy to be rescued from school. He had sailed on joy through being taken out for tacos and had marinated in the attention that Mother lavished on him while finding him a nice suit to wear to his prom. It was only the exhaustion that followed which robbed the afternoon of its glittering joy. Malik found his brother collapsed on his bed stroking Sailor’s fur while the cat slept on his chest. 

“I don’t think that’s my cat anymore,” Malik said. Kadar’s eyebrows knitted up in confusion. It was a good attempt at a ruse when they all knew that Sailor had made a choice about who he liked best a long time ago. “Probably wouldn’t be fair to Aquila to take him anyway. Poor cat needs to live somewhere he doesn’t have to be afraid.”

Kadar smiled. “I’m not going to fight you. I love this cat.”

“Well, he’s yours.” Malik left him so Kadar could coo at the cat. He wandered downstairs and ended up on the front porch (after dark) waiting for Altair to show up. It was almost an hour, sitting out on the step, watching everyone come home from late nights or leave for fun evenings. He turned his phone over and over against his leg while he waited, trying to work out what the worst case scenario was. 

“I am going to bed,” Mother said when she opened the door behind him. “If your—what should I call him?”

“Boyfriend?” Malik offered.

“Boyfriend would like to stay tonight, as long as you are quiet that would be fine.” He couldn’t tell if she meant ‘don’t have sex’ or ‘don’t talk loudly’ but either way Malik nodded his head and mumbled a thanks and a good night. 

It was half an hour longer before Altair pulled up to the curb outside of his house. Malik was on his feet before the car was even fully parked. He was all the way around it to the driver’s side door before Altair got out of it. The street lamp over their head illuminated the marks on Altair’s face and the grim-set-stiffness of his face. 

“Ezio,” Altair said with a lifted hand to motion at his face. “Not—I mean, it wasn’t a bad fight.” He didn’t flinch when Malik touched the raw mark on his cheek but lean his face in against Malik’s palm. The façade or the resolve that had carried him so far seemed to be crumbling under the touch so Malik took his hand instead and pulled him up toward the house. “Your Mom doesn’t want me—”

“Don’t argue,” Malik said. He pulled Altair inside and locked the door behind them. Around the corner, through the house and up to his room with the closing door and the quiet walls. He watched Altair shift on his feet back and forth. Every rock of his body made his face curl up in another distasteful twist until it seemed like he would sprain some muscle in his cheeks with the effort. 

“I hate her,” Altair said finally. His teeth were bright white and exposed between his drawn back lips. His face was pink all around his eyes and in spots on his cheeks. His eyes were filmy with tears that caught in his lashes. When he opened his mouth again, his voice broke with the effort. “I _despise_ her. I—” 

Malik stepped closer to Altair and it made him flinch so he lifted his hand to show he meant no harm. When he put his arm around Altair, he could feel him shaking, feel the stiffness of his whole body. “Hug me,” he said.

“I can’t,” Altair said. He closed his eyes with his teeth clenched. “I just want to hurt something.”

“Hug me,” Malik said quietly. “You’re hurt. This is comfort. Please try.”

Altair did put his arms around him, like he didn’t expect anything of it. So he must have been surprised when his body leaned into the touch, when he sank into the familiarity of their bodies touching. It was a shock in his voice when he said, “I could have stopped them, why didn’t I see what they were doing? I could have stopped them.” And the despair and the _regret_ in the words made Malik’s eyes turn wet. Altair’s fingers pulled at his shirt and his face pressed against Malik’s shoulder all wet-and-hot. Malik kissed his hair when he cried and rubbed his back. 

“Desmond would never blame you,” Malik said softly. Altair had calmed into sniffles and silence. “He wouldn’t want to know that you blamed yourself either. Put that blame on the people it belongs to. If they are trying to make things right, then forgive them. If they aren’t, then _burn_ them.”

There Altair drew in a breath and lifted his head. He sniffled again and cleared his throat. Maybe he meant to say something. There were words stuck in his throat, just under where Malik’s hand was resting half on his collarbone and half on his neck. But when he tipped his head, when he parted his lips, the words seemed to dissipate. In their place, he kissed Malik. It was every bit as desperate as the crying had been. His mouth and his hands were rough, Malik didn’t answer it exactly or try to provoke it. 

He expected Altair would want to fuck him and wasn’t sure how to react when the man got on his knees instead. He stroked Altair’s hair while he sucked him off and kissed him after while Altair finished himself off with a rough hand. 

In bed, after they cleaned up the mess, Altair was wound around him like snake: exhausted and boneless. His fingers were philosophers against Malik’s scars. “I could have killed her today.”

Malik’s hand was rest against the healthy muscle of Altair’s upper arm. He kissed his forehead (so close to his mouth), “you didn’t. That’s what matters.” He rested his cheek against Altair’s hair, “can you sleep?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Altair mumbled. He yawned then and closed his eyes. “Tell me about what you’re studying in college.” 

\--

> **Desmond**
> 
> How did it go?
> 
> You’re supposed to be on your honeymoon
> 
> I am. Now answer me.
> 
> She is only alive today so that I can enjoy the inevitable moment when her children take everything from her
> 
> Are you alone? Did you go back to Malik?
> 
> I’m at Malik’s house
> 
> Good.

Altair found his way downstairs after three in the morning when he woke up feeling hot and crowded in Malik’s little bed. He was an intruder in Lamah’s house, distinctly unwelcomed by the furniture and the silence. Still, he found a comfortable slouch in the couch and listened to the nothingness of the house while he tried to put his head back into the right order. 

The couch was set in such a way that all he had to was tip his head back to see who was walking down the stairs. It was-and-was _not_ surprising to him to see Lamah. She was wearing a long nightgown that went to her ankles and a sweater to cover her arms. While she walked, she yawned and pushed her hair back over her shoulders. He said nothing as she walked around the back of the house but as soon as she came to a stop, looking directly at him, he said:

“Malik said I could stay.”

Her arms were wrapped around her slim body and she nodded. “Come have tea with me,” she said. “I sometimes wake up and need something warm to put me asleep again.” She must have sensed that he was not inclined to joy her because she lifted her eyebrows at him in a way that was so very similar to her son that it made his mouth quirk up in an answering smile. Lamah did not move until he dragged himself up and followed after her on heavy feet. 

In the kitchen, she set a tea kettle on the stove and went to the cupboard to pull out the cups and the little bags of tea. She sat in the seat opposite him at the flimsy old card table with the gouges and scratches all across the top. There was a large, round, black burn on it from a pan that had been set down without anything to protect the surface.

“Malik gave me the recipe for your Grandmother’s mamuneh'ya. It is not a breakfast that I am very familiar with. If my own Mother made it for me, I do not remember.” 

“I don’t even know if my Dad ever had it. I think my Grandmother just wanted me to have something from where I was born. It wasn’t important how relevant it was.” He was tired enough that his mouth was all loose with words and his head full of half-thought things. Lamah was nodding without smiling or frowning, only listening to the words that he used. “Do you still talk to your Mother? Malik’s never said much about grandparents.”

“No,” Lamah said. The kettle whistled behind them and she went to pick it up and poured the boiling water into the cups. The tea steeped and the smell of it was warm-and-comforting in this little kitchen. “No, my Mother was finished with me when I disregarded her advice and left. I was finished with her when she told me that it was proof I had chosen wrong when Faheem died.”

“How did you survive?” and it was not _wonder_ that made him lean forward. The more he knew of Lamah’s life, the more he felt woefully inadequate in comparison. But it wasn’t wonder or respect that drove the words from his mouth. It was the _want_ of anything to quiet the chaos in his skull.

“I cried,” Lamah said. “I cried every night. If I had not, the unhappiness would have consumed me. What have you done to survive?”

Altair snorted, “hurt people.”

“Does it make you feel better? Do you feel relieved of the burden when you hurt someone as much as you are hurt?” Lamah picked up the tea bag by the string and lifted and lowered it in the cup. 

Altair looked down at his own mug and shrugged. “I don’t think it was ever a conscious choice. Violence was an acceptable expression of emotion in my Aunt’s house but crying was wasteful. No problem was ever solved through tears.”

Lamah frowned at that. “What about your Grandmother? Did she share the same sentiment?” 

“I don’t know. I don’t remember crying in her house—if I did, she would sit me in her lap and she listened to whatever I had to say. Then whoever had hurt me was dealt with. Grandmother believed in absolute vengeance.” There was definitely safety in that, when he was a child, and fairness was an abstract thing skewed heavily toward himself.

And the sound Lamah made was a hum of disapproval. “Give yourself permission to cry. Give yourself the right to feel the things that are hurting you. Nothing can be overcome or handled that cannot be experienced. If my son is the man that I raised him to be, he will never shame your tears.”

Strange how Altair could have cried in that moment, with the mug of tea between his palms. There was nothing he could think of to say that wouldn’t end with some embarrassing lack of control. Rather he drew breath in through his nose and pushed it out through his mouth. 

“I am outsider to your life. I have formed judgments about you that were unfair. I have viewed you through a selfish lens because I was not as good a Mother to my son as I wanted. Take these words I am going to say with only as much weight as you would the voice of any outsider.” Lamah paused there. Until he nodded. Then she said, “ _shame_ on the woman that does not protect her children. _Shame_ on the mother that raises her children to distrust themselves. _Shame_ on her, but not on _you_.”

Altair ducked his head because his throat was laced with sore-red-wetness and there were tears on his cheeks that he couldn’t blink out of his eyes. No part of him wanted to cry in front of this woman, and no part of him could have stopped. 

Her chair scraped across the floor and he thought that she was going to excuse herself. He wasn’t ready for her hand to touch his shoulder. But she reacted the same as Malik when he pulled away. Her two hands raised up to show she was harmless. There were tears on her face too. “I only wanted to say, maybe you should go back to him now.”

Altair snorted. “Sure, I’ll just wake him up crying again.”

“I am awake,” Malik said from somewhere behind him. “I didn’t want to interrupt.” He looked at his Mother who nodded her head before she left the room. Her cup of tea (meant to help her sleep) left untouched on the table. Malik said, “but yes, wake me up.”

“I don’t _feel better_ ,” Altair said. Still he wrapped his arms around Malik’s body and pressed his face against his chest. Still, he didn’t fight to stop himself from crying while Malik’s fingers stroked his hair. He was _exhausted_ , sagging in the chair and _dried out_ into something like a shell of himself. 

“You will,” Malik said when he was sure that Altair would hear him. He bent forward to kiss the top of his head. 

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> What sort of puppy?
> 
> what sort did you want when you were a child?
> 
> Something that liked to play.
> 
> I did not have a good idea of what I wanted.
> 
> What is your living arrangement, are you going to be travelling a lot?
> 
> I will most likely find an apartment to live in. 
> 
> I travel mostly during the summer when school is out or when there are family obligations.
> 
> Well you’re rich so travelling with a dog is probably less of a hassle
> 
> You should get something mid-sized
> 
> Spaniels?
> 
> Perhaps. Are you in school?
> 
> Yes. But it’s French and I’m already failing
> 
> It’s unfortunate that you did not know Altair sooner, he could have tutored you.
> 
> Yes because learning a language from a dude that knows like 11 wouldn’t be intimidating
> 
> I prefer not to have to acknowledge my mediocrity
> 
> I promise that you care more about Altair’s aptitude than he does.
> 
> The things I could do with the genius contained in his thick skull.
> 
> You would be the prettiest dictator in the world.

Kadar’s sole concern at the end of the day was getting out of school. He had a countdown going in his planner, an ever shortening list of days left before he never had to return. Most days he stuffed his books into his locker and slung his empty bag onto his back.

Fresh off a conversation with Claudia about what sort of dictator she’d be, and what her ultimate goal upon achieving world domination would be, he was grinning to himself as he headed for the doors, neatly anonymous in the crowd of kids all trying to get _out_. The seniors with cars were talking loud and laughing nervously, all of them going in packs far-too concerned with what to wear and who they were going to prom with. 

Kadar was concentrating on not overhearing how some girl was hoping to have sex with her boyfriend for the very first time ever. (That seemed to be the ambition of quite a few couples as far as he’d heard in the halls, bathrooms and cafeteria.) If he had been paying attention to anything else (except how sex had been nice when he was having it), he might not have almost walked into Stephanie. 

“Oh,” she said, “I thought you saw me.”

No, no he had not seen her. Kadar smiled because it was his instinctive reaction. “Uh, no.” In fact he hadn’t seen her since she dumped him. It was easier and better for all involved if he kept his distance. Everyone involved (even in periphery) seemed to agree because the loyal crowd of friends he had enjoyed in the middle part of the year had dissipated as well. “How are you?”

“I was coming to talk to you,” she said. “I remember you always walked home this way.” Her hands were folded in front of her. Her smile strained at the edges.

Kadar wrapped his hands around the straps of his bag. The sort of thing that made more sense when it was weighted down properly with books and presently just pulled the back up against his neck. “Ok. What did you need?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he had a small moment of panic that she might tell him that she was pregnant and he would be a father. The whole scenario (inspired in its depth of unhappiness) played out in his head in a matter of half-seconds. 

So when she said, “I just wanted to apologize,” he almost didn’t understand the words at all. “I said a lot of mean things to you. You’re a really great guy. I hope that whatever you decide to do that it makes you happy.” She smiled again (somewhat more sincerely).

“Oh,” he said. “Ok. Thank you. You too.” 

Stephanie only nodded before she motioned back toward the buses that would take her home. He waved at her while she walked off and then spent a moment contemplating the feeling of having dodged some life-ending accident before he started walking. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he pulled it out. Claudia was sending him facts about dogs. 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> We had to go pick up London
> 
> I already told Mom
> 
> Don’t get assassinated by the mob.
> 
> Thanks for that

It started with: “oh shit!” Altair waking up from a dreary non-sleep that woke up Malik from a far more real sleep. And he’d jerked upright with justifiable alarm and almost fell off the couch. He didn’t even have the chance to ask what was wrong before Altair said, “I forgot London.”

He called the maid that cleaned his house on Thursdays and she agreed to feed and walk the dog. Then Altair stood there looking horrified with himself, face bruised and hair unwashed. “Uh, I should probably go get her. Feel up to going for a drive?”

“Were we planning on coming back here?” Malik asked. Because it hadn’t seemed like the sort of thing that they did in the very short span of time they had been dating. Either they were separate or they were in New York but rarely where Malik lived. 

“Weren’t we?” Altair asked. Like he couldn’t even remember why he’d made that assumption. But more importantly, he said, “we can talk on the way I need to get London.”

The actual drive started in silence, got stuck in traffic and meandered into a conversation like this:

“Why would you buy a house that you have no intention of keeping? What purpose does that serve?”  
“What purpose does it serve to live in a house you don’t own? What if I want to make it bigger or knock down a wall?”  
“No.”  
“What do you mean, ‘no’? It’s a perfectly valid argument. You just want to move out there, find the first place that doesn’t smell like old cheese and just pay money to occupy a space that doesn’t belong to you. Why not just throw the money away?”  
“Why buy a house that you aren’t going to keep?”  
“You can’t repeat the same thing twice! Buy a house, make it better and sell it. Isn’t that what the infomercials tell you to do?”  
“For that to work, you have to buy a house that needs repairs or remodeling. I don’t want to be worried about what wall is being torn down while I’m trying to study.”  
“That is not the spirit of compromise.”  
“No, the spirit of compromise is me not punching you in the testicles while you’re driving.”

They made it to Altair’s before it got dark (but not by much). London was a ball of fluff and hateful barking, jumping up and down against Altair’s legs until he managed to catch her. She announced her displeasure at his behavior again and again while licking his neck and fingers and any other part of him she could get to. 

After cleaning up her messes and taking her outside, they stood in the kitchen staring at the pantry full of food and the impressively perfect appliances. There was an infinite number of options about what they could make for dinner but it seemed very likely they would end up eating cereal out of the box (again). Altair sighed, “do you want to go home tonight?”

“I don’t want to get back into a car tonight. Are we safe to stay for the night? Will anyone come to find you?” Malik wasn’t even sure why Altair didn’t want to be here.

“Yes we’re fine. I think Ezio went back to California already so I doubt anyone will be bothering me.” Then he made a face at the cereal options in his pantry. “Do you want to order something? I don’t care what it is. I just want to eat, take a bath and sleep.”

“Sure,” Malik said. “I’ll get the menus.”

\--

> **Claudia**
> 
> I am more surprised that you aren’t a virgin than I am that you were afraid you might have a child.
> 
> You are 18 a child is a thing you should fear.
> 
> I was offended a moment but I remembered you’ve been researching Islam
> 
> I have come across a confusing mix of information.
> 
> I should be a virgin
> 
> But Malik should be dead so, we are unconventional
> 
> I had intended to stay a virgin until marriage.
> 
> Then I met a very handsome boy who convinced me he loved me best.
> 
> What did you do to him when you found out it wasn’t true?
> 
> I did not have to do anything. Federico found me crying.
> 
> So he’s dead then
> 
> We are not so drastic.
> 
> So your brother hasn’t ever killed anyone?
> 
> No to my knowledge. He has hurt them. 
> 
> Go to school. Pay attention in French.

At breakfast, a quiet affair without long stares and concerned silences over Malik-and-Altair, Mother looked up from her plate and said, “would you want to meet Aaron?”

Kadar was halfway through a daydream about exiting high school on the victorious wave of popularity that taking a semi-celebrity (a rich and beautiful woman) to prom would allow him. “Uh, is that Mr. Jacob’s first name?” Mother nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Of course I would. How serious are you about him?”

Mother’s smile was unlike any he had ever seen on her face. Her whole face was made bright about it, as young and adorable as any girl’s mooning over her crush. “I want to be cautious.”

“It’s been—at very least, a _decade_. I think you have been cautious. Is he serious about you? Does he want marriage, and, uh—us?” He motioned at himself but he meant the whole sum of the nonsense that surrounded Malik-and-him. 

“I believe he sincerely loves me. I believe he would happily marry me. I have not yet been convinced he understands the weight of responsibility that children bring. I have not convinced myself that I would share that weight. You are my sons. But he wants to meet you, in this new capacity.” 

“Good,” Kadar said. “I’d love to meet him.” 

Mother’s smile was oh-so-pleased. She nodded her head as if she’d expected a very different reaction. “Good,” she agreed. “Good.”

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> Just saw Ezio’s face.
> 
> Good work.
> 
> I expected threats
> 
> My Mother is very angry. She has come to believe I intend to take her livelihood and her family from her.
> 
> I never said it would be you
> 
> You are conditioned to survive, you will inherit regardless
> 
> It will be Ezio.
> 
> I know

“I don’t want to rent.” Altair had been raised with the expectation of saying ‘good morning’ and not immediately launching into conversations that were twelve hours old. Malik was either used to picking up where he left off in arguments or he wasn’t surprised that Altair did. “I don’t want to live somewhere that doesn’t belong to me. I would compromise that we buy somewhere that requires repairs and then we can sell it for a profit so you aren’t upset about the money spent but you don’t want to deal with repairs being done.”

Malik huffed a sigh. “They would be a distraction.”

“I remember that you did the majority of your studying in the library because no person that you lived with would leave you alone.” Altair had his hands resting on the back of the couch and Malik was frowning at his phone while he sat in the chair with London in his lap. “I don’t know much about construction work but I’m reasonably sure that if I told the men doing the work that they couldn’t be there after a certain time of day they would be gone if you needed study time.”

“It’s a fair compromise,” Malik conceded. “Now leave me alone so I can work through my outrage at buying a house we only intend to use for a year.” He waved his hand at Altair like dismissing him with a hint of humor on his face. 

“Anything for you,” Altair retorted. “But work fast because I don’t want to get caught in traffic on the way back to your house.”

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Claudia’s here, we were thinking about going out to dinner.
> 
> Who?
> 
> Us and you, not Mom
> 
> where?
> 
> Not tacos
> 
> I don’t know.

The fact that they ended at the nice taco place did not surprise Malik. Kadar had a supernatural ability to manipulate people to his will. Claudia was wearing normal clothes, the sort of thing that Malik wouldn’t even think would have a place in her closet. Her jeans and T-shirt made her blend in seamlessly next to his oversized brother with his full head of curls that fell across his forehead and dangled into his eyes. He was wearing a button down with thin stripes and Claudia was trying to stab his hand with a fork for stealing the last of the chips. Her hair was pulled up in a ponytail that did nothing to keep her long (thick, dark) hair from getting everywhere.

Altair was sitting next to him, looking vaguely amused by the proceeding when he wasn’t eying the dishes and silverware suspiciously.

“I told you this is the nice taco place,” Kadar said. “I’m sorry that I intentionally took you to an unclean place and freaked you out.” Not a single word that Kadar said even approached sincerity. Most of his attention was spent on not getting stabbed. 

Claudia only relented the assault because a waiter stopped by the table to ask if everything were okay and to replenish the baskets of chips and the little dishes of salsa. After victoriously stuffing a chip into her face, she turned her attention to Altair. “I expected your face to look worse after I saw Ezio’s. He does not like getting hit in the face.”

“Neither do I,” Altair said. He shrugged it off though. “Are you staying at a hotel tonight?”

“She’s staying in Malik’s room,” Kadar said. He didn’t look apologetic about that either. “I didn’t think you two would be back and neither did Mom. I can sleep on the couch in the living room if you guys want to sleep in my room.”

“No,” Malik said before Altair could answer. (He was fairly certain that Altair would have said no too.) “Did you find an accessory for your prom dress?” 

“Yes,” Claudia said. Then she launched into an explanation of her choices that seemed to interest Kadar well enough that he could contribute. Altair stopped listening almost immediately and Malik leaned in against his side and knocked him in the ribs with his stump.

“Is she trying to date my brother?” was a small enough whisper he felt reasonably safe that it wasn’t overheard. He expected a flippant response but Altair took a moment to study the scene before him:

Claudia turned sideways in her seat. Kadar leaning against the inside of the booth they were crammed into. The two of them arguing about different cuts of diamonds and how they related to the stupid Twilight novels. Claudia bit a curse at his brother in Italian and shook her head and he laughed with a smug smile.

“No,” Altair said. “If she wants to date someone, she wears heels, leaves her hair down and only talks about things that the man cares about. I think he’s safe for now.” But also, “do you think they’d notice if we just left?”

“Probably not. I do want my food though.” He picked his phone up, “scrabble?”

Altair’s whole face became a self-sure arrogant mask. “Sure,” he said, “I always love winning.”

\--

> **Lucy**
> 
> So are you going to prom?
> 
> No.
> 
> We are going to see what Claudia and Kadar look like before they go
> 
> That is disappointing to me.
> 
> Why would we go?
> 
> I don’t know I haven’t figured out why you went the last time!
> 
> Because it’s romantic? Didn’t you meet at this prom?
> 
> Those are memories I want to relive
> 
> I’ll just get Malik drunk, feed him pizza and fuck him
> 
> Obviously you were supposed to behave better this time.
> 
> Are you having a good time?
> 
> Yes. 
> 
> But I’d be having a better time if you hadn’t just thrown all my romantic fantasies about prom out the window.
> 
> Also if I had some reasonable assurance you were actually okay.
> 
> I am fine
> 
> Now go enjoy yourself

Stuck between the restless feeling of wanting to do something and the lack of interest in actually doing it, Altair had spent the better part of the day laying in the hotel bed watching stupid TV and listening to Malik type up the next weeks’ worth of posts for the Sett. (They had decided to wait a few days before looking for houses to buy.) 

It was two in the afternoon, maybe, almost three. They were supposed to go and meet Kadar and Claudia at Lamah’s house around five to appropriately approve of the outfit and see off the young non-lovebirds who were going out to eat before going to prom. Claudia had rented some fancy car or another to drive them. Altair was watching the people on the screen ripping each other’s clothes off with a sudden fiery passion only found in action movies and intense romances. Aside from aggressively sucking Malik off a few days ago they hadn’t had sex in days and while that was far from the worst thing to happen that week, it was a noticeable departure from their usual inability to go twelve hours without falling into a series of sex acts.

“What part is comforting?” Altair asked.

“I don’t know where that question came from,” Malik answered without looking up from the screen. “I can’t answer it without context.” He finished off what he was doing while he spoke so that he looked up at the end.

“Comfort sex, what part is the comforting part?”

“I don’t know,” Malik said. “Properly done, I think it’s just knowing that someone cares? The only time I have ever actually been comforted by sex in a meaningful way is with you or—” He motioned to the side with his hand as he tried to find a way to back out of mentioning Leonardo. “It has been a rare occurrence.”

“So it’s no particular part of the sex? Is it as comforting to fuck as it is to be fucked?” The couple on the screen had already finished fucking and the plot had moved right on along. 

Malik set his laptop to the side and shrugged. “I guess in theory it works the same. Why?”

“I’m bored,” Altair said. “I think too much when I’m bored.” He sat up and crossed his legs in front of him. The fact that they had found themselves in the very hotel the whole disaster started in had not gone without being noticed. It had been the closest hotel that seemed reasonable for a few night’s stay. There were no pets allowed so London was in the care of Lamah and Kadar for the day. (He had yet to hear about how his dog had been gutted by the evil white cat.) “If I asked you to fuck me, would you?”

There room was a set of queen beds. Malik had taken up residence on the second bed as soon as they were both awake that morning. He turned so he was facing Altair, crossed his legs to mirror him and rested his hand in his lap. “Are you asking?”

“Yes. I have been. You just haven’t ever wanted to take me up on it. If it’s something you don’t want to do—I just don’t understand why it wouldn’t be? My favorite things to do is give head and stick my dick in people. The fact that you don’t seem to like either of those things confuses me.”

Malik laughed at that. “I don’t like giving head. If you ever want that, you should save it up for special occasions like your birthday or an anniversary. I’m good with what we do. I’m good at what we do. You are very good at what we do. You’re a virgin in this respect—as far as I know.”

“Yes,” Altair conceded.

“I only have one arm.” He lifted it up to the side like the point needed to be illustrated.

“But you still have a dick.”

Malik gave him the finger and then just shrugged. “I don’t have a good reason. I just want to make sure you have realistic expectations. Some people hate it.” But then he picked at the side seam of his pants, “Did you want to try it now?”

“How did you ever get laid? I have never been propositioned with sex in a less appealing way. I’m asking you to fuck me, not to have your teeth drilled.” He got off the bed and took the step and a half to cross the space between their beds, climbed into Malik’s lap and pushed him flat on the bed. That, at very least, seemed to spark his interest. “I think you’re making this too complicated.”

“Do you even have lube?”

“Yes, do you even have condoms?”

“Yes.” Then Malik pushed them over with his elbow against the mattress and his whole body arching up against Altair. They didn’t often end up in that position, with Altair open-thighs and greedy hands kissing back against Malik’s impatience. “Just,” Malik said before they could even properly start making out, “this is something you really want? Not something you think you have to offer to keep me?”

“Malik,” Altair said with his fingers spread across Malik’s shoulders, “I turned down the nice lesbian lady with the strap-on who desperately wanted to fuck me in the ass because I really wanted to do this with you. I have been waiting since I found out you were a man for this moment.”

Malik nodded and kissed him again. It was a thoughtful sort of kiss, the kind that sank deep into your skin and bones, that nestled up close to all the warm places. Altair ran his fingers through Malik’s hair and found that dimpled skin of the scars on his side. He was marinating in the building arousal and enjoying it just as lazy as it was. 

Then Malik lifted up again, licking his pinked lips, saying something like, “what was that porn star’s name?”

Altair sighed. “Look I’m going to fuck you so you remember how it’s done.” Then he flipped them over, grabbed Malik’s knees and yanked his pants down. It made Malik laugh like an idiot (it did every time) and when he was naked from the waist down, Altair crawled back up between his legs. He was biting his frustration into Malik’s neck while the asshole smirked at him. 

“Travis?” No. “Taylor?” No. “It started with a T didn’t it? What was his name?” Malik gasped because Altair was moving down his chest, nipping at his skin through his shirt as he went. “Trent? Tyler?”

“ _Trey_ ,” Altair said finally. “Now shut up and pay attention. I’m going to show you what you’re supposed to do and then next time it’s your turn.”

\--

bestofthree: going to prom. If this doesn’t work I might have another hate blog devoted to me (2m ago)

Notyourbrother: give @sass-badger a minute to complain about how it wasn’t a hate blog (1m ago)

Sass-badger: it wasn’t a hate blog.

Kadar was reasonably sure that most people didn’t spend the day before prom walking around the local animal shelter, playing with the puppies and dogs. Claudia was not content to look at the dogs and gauge her interest in them on looks alone. No, she harassed the poor volunteers that manned the shelter into allowing her to play with each and every dog.

“You could save time and just adopt all of them,” Kadar said when they were sitting in the play area with the twenty second dog. It was an awkward sized almost-puppy, approximately six months old. The paper on it said it was some kind of mutt but probably had some manner of spaniel in it. While Claudia had enjoyed playing with the others for a few minutes, they had been sitting on the floor of the play area for a good sixteen minutes with this puppy. “Or, you know, just this one.”

“I don’t know if it’s a good idea yet,” she said. That must have been why she was still playing fetch with the puppy in a space barely long enough for Kadar to full stretch his legs out in front of him. The dog was panting with joy as it ran down the braided rope toy Claudia was throwing. “My life is unpredictable. The present situation is unstable. It seems as if it would be a poor time to try to raise a puppy. He is very cute.” And she rubbed at the puppy’s ears fondly. “Do they accept donations?”

“Well it is a non-profit animal shelter and there’s a sign out front asking for dog food donations.” He grabbed the side of the play area and pulled himself up. Claudia picked up the puppy and stood up again. The volunteer that had been impatiently waiting for them took the dog back so he could be returned to his crate. Claudia pulled him toward the exit door, out into the office and stopped there to donate a surprisingly calm five thousand dollars. 

Outside again, she said, “I really liked that dog.”

“Well, sleep on it? He’ll probably still be there tomorrow.” When he looked at his phone, he was disappointed to find it was still hours away from the time they needed to get ready. Even if they had just wasted a couple hours in the pet shelter, they still had hours left to go. “So you knew Altair when he was a kid?”

“Yes,” Claudia said. “What did you want to know?”

“Something funny? Or embarrassing?”

They got into the car while Claudia thought about it. “We used to have tea parties and I convinced him to wear my dresses. Your brother also convinced him to wear dresses so it must not be difficult.” She thought a while longer and sighed. “Most of the embarrassing things that he did were on that television show. I know Ezio loves to teach him the wrong words for things. It only worked at first. Altair catches on too quickly.”

“I forgot about that stupid show,” Kadar said. “I’m surprised he didn’t single-handedly sink the whole show. He was so bad.” 

Claudia nodded her head. And Kadar laughed. 

\--

> **Sofia**
> 
> How are you not bored?
> 
> Are you bored of sex?
> 
> I’m bored of not having sex.
> 
> I feel like I would have a better answer for you if I had a dick.
> 
> Given the option to fuck the ass of the hot man that I was in love with, I think I’d take it.
> 
> Well I hear Ezio’s into that
> 
> I do not love him. I find him attractive.
> 
> But I would fuck him.

The conversation was painfully inappropriate considering he was sitting on his Mother couch, listening to her relate to Altair in unamused anecdotes how she had for all but threaten him into going to the Prom. 

“I didn’t go to my prom,” Altair said. “I don’t even know if they had one? Is that why you were standing by the punch bowl glaring at everyone, telling the kids to go away?”

“Um, no. I was trying to keep someone from spiking the punch. I mean, I didn’t want to go either.” In fact, he had composed an entire essay to counter his Mother’s insistence that he go to the stupid dance. The fact that one day he would want to have the memory didn’t seem important as the fact that it was a waste of his time and effort. (Retrospectively, it was for the best that he went.)

The sound of footsteps on the stairs interrupted any minute of the tense conversation. Mother looked up toward the stairs and smiled in a way that she could only possibly smile at Kadar. Malik didn’t look over his shoulder but he heard Kadar say, “don’t look at me like that. I feel ridiculous.”

When he was down in the living room, looking very well put together, the smugness on his face was anything but ridiculous. His hair was just as curly and messy as it always was. It was damp here and there like he’d tried to get it to behave by sprinkling it with water (to no avail). His suit was dark and well-fitting (but not tailored). His tie was red in a shade that apparently matched Claudia’s dress perfectly. His shoes were shiny (brand new) and seemed distinctly uncomfortable to be standing there. “Stop smiling at me like that,” he said. 

“I don’t know how else I would smile at you,” Malik said. “You’re adorable.”

“I will strangle you with this tie. It took me six minutes to tie it. It’s probably not even right.”

“It’s not,” Altair agreed. He stood up and motioned Kadar over to him so he could pull the tie loose. “Claudia would have fixed it for you. She knows how to do this too.” Then he made short work of fixing the tie so the knot was perfect and it hung the right way. “You look great.”

“I don’t want to look too good. I get the feeling it would make Claudia angry if I did.” He sighed again as he fiddled with the long part of the tie and then looked toward the stairs. “I still don’t know how to dance. This is probably a stupid idea. Why did anyone let me decide to do this?”

“Because nobody at prom will be more impressive than you when you show up with Claudia Auditore wearing real diamonds?” Malik said. He hadn’t asked Kadar’s exact motivation but it seemed like the perfect fuck you to the assholes he’d gone through school with. From the innocent shrug of his shoulders, it seemed Kadar agreed.

When Claudia came downstairs (finally) she walked into the living room carrying her heels like there was nothing at all remarkable about her. Her hair—usually straight and kept out of the way—was a long cascade of large curls, artfully kept away from her face by unseen clips but otherwise allowed to fall down her back. The dress itself was a deep sort of red, fitted around her upper body like a glove, held in place by a strap that went around her neck (Malik did not know as much as his brother about dresses) and the skirt was loose around her legs, long enough that it went nearly all the way to the floor. Her necklace was a web of diamonds, all of them sparkling in the dim lights of the living room. She had a matching bracelet and earrings that weren’t quiet as overwhelmed with priceless jewels. 

“Oh,” she said when she saw Kadar. Her fingers reached out to touch his tie, she adjusted his collar a bit and then smiled at him very approvingly. “You do clean up very nicely.”

“You’re not so bad,” he answered back. Then he turned to all of them. “Are you going to take pictures?”

“Just one or two,” Mother said. She ushered them outside where the weather was nice and the sky was still bright enough to get good photos. She snapped a few pictures and then hugged them both with tears in her eyes. 

“But don’t drink the punch,” Altair said when the two of them were finally heading for the hired car. The look that Mother leveled at him would have made men six times as brave rethink their choices but Altair only smiled. “I mean that sincerely.” Mother didn’t look convinced but Altair kept smiling anyway.

When they were gone, Mother sighed. “Make sure you walk your dog before you leave. Kadar said it was important that she not be allowed in our back yard alone and I am supposed to make sure Sailor stays in his room.” Then she smiled at the car as it turned the corner and disappeared and went back into the house.

\--

> **Edward**
> 
> I have been informed I am no longer Mama Maria’s charity case.
> 
> There will be no lapse in payments
> 
> That isn’t actually why I care.
> 
> I was trying to come up with a casual way to ask how you were. I am not very good at it.
> 
> I will be fine
> 
> Was she awful?
> 
> She was cruel. Was she always cruel?
> 
> No. But neither was Phyllis, according to everyone who knew her.
> 
> Maybe Phyllis figured out how to live with herself; maybe Mama Maria can’t. 
> 
> I don’t know. I don’t want to be a part of it. I promised myself I wouldn’t be.
> 
> What changed?
> 
> Federico.
> 
> Not because we have sex. I was told you know that too.
> 
> He was content to be awful most of his life. He doesn’t want to be now. I understand that. That I can fight for.
> 
> Well he’ll be glad to have you on his side
> 
> Let the people that love you take care of you.
> 
> Sure, watch out for mutineers.

Altair was content to lay in bed and feel sorry for himself in the same obnoxious way that he’d been doing for the past three days. Aside the necessary intermissions to drive somewhere or attend to business, he had luxuriated in laying around. It wasn’t a lie that he felt _better_ now than he had two days ago (or even yesterday) but it was still not as _better_ as he’d like to feel. The whole obnoxious waste of time involved in ‘experiencing’ the emotion left him with a bitter sense that foregoing the whole process was most likely the better solution. 

(Then he thought, three days ago he would have picked up a spoon and shoved it so far through Mama Maria’s eye socket it would have torn her brain to shreds and every hateful thing she had ever thought or said would be neatly-and-entirely erased.) 

Malik was leaning against his side, watching the same nonsense movie that he was. He was careful not to look at Altair’s phone when it buzzed but always keeping his attention straightforward with a bored and angry look on his face. That same war-on-himself look that had become commonplace in so short a time. 

There was nothing remotely _sexual_ happening on the screen. (It was some manner of high stakes political maneuvering but nothing sexy.) Altair didn’t think he was overly attractive, slouching with his belly in wrinkles and his arms hanging off his shoulders like a gorilla. He was wearing his sleep pants (and those were soft) that Malik liked to rub between his fingers even though he didn’t realize he was doing it. But the hand that crept down to stroke the inside of his thigh was far more deliberate than mindless. 

In absent of anything better to do, Altair’s entire attention was drawn to that touch. The inch forward, two inch backward space that Malik’s thumb was caressing, the way the fabric followed along: bunching and straightening out again. It was hardly enough of a touch to get all worked up over but it spread out like spider webs, tingling its way the short distance to his dick. Maybe he made a noise or maybe he didn’t but he definitely arched his back and slid his ass down farther on the bed because that put Malik’s lazy hand far closer to his dick than it had been a moment ago. 

Rather than take the obvious hint, Malik moved his hand away entirely. Altair was going to frown at him, but Malik shifted how he was sitting and his hand dropped back into place, brushing up-down in erratic motions between his knee and his hip, teasing all along the inside of his leg. 

Altair licked his lips and looked at Malik. The bastard was smiling at him, kept eye contact the whole time his fingertips danced up the inside of his leg to cup around his hardening dick. “You’re not nice,” Altair said.

“You serious about trying this?”

“I’m not sure what else I could possibly do to prove that I’m serious,” Altair said. If he sounded somewhat tight in the breathing area it was because Malik was stroking his dick through his pants, still looking at him with the same perfectly innocent face. “Do you want some sort of contractual agreement?”

“No,” Malik said. “Just let me know if you want to stop. Not everyone likes it and you’re stubborn and stupid.”

“I will.” Then Altair pulled Malik forward by the back of the neck to kiss him. It was easy enough to finish wiggling down to lay against the mound of pillows behind his back. Malik followed after him. His hand was still down between Altair’s legs, worming into his pants to pull his dick free so he could stroke it without the hindrance of the fabric. The effort of holding himself upright made his belly quiver under Altair’s hands. 

It shouldn’t have been any different, kissing Malik under these circumstances, they were both precisely the same sort of person they were a moment ago. Save for how Malik kissed him with a bite of aggravation in the touch. As if being bullied into topping left him in a sour mood. (Or, very much like how he used to write essays detailing every way that Altair had misbehaved and why he should have known better.) Altair could have smirked back into the kiss if he weren’t so busy being pleased to finally getting what he wanted. 

Since Malik was busy jerking him off, Altair concentrated half on being kissed with polite aggression and half on divest Malik of his clothes. He managed to get his pants undone and pushed down. Squeezed his ass because he liked the feel of it under his palms, and the sound that Malik made when he did it. When he got the top shirt unbuttoned, after Malik got tired of his divided attention and moved from kissing him to sucking the hot spots on his neck and collar, he had to interrupt the whole proceeding to pull the undershirt off over Malik’s head. 

Altair went ahead and kicked his own pants off too, since they were almost naked. Malik moved back long enough to get his off and then sat there on his knees between Altair’s legs with a deeply thoughtful look on his face. “You should turn over,” Malik said.

“Ok.” He rolled over onto his stomach and looked over his shoulder to where Malik was still making the same thoughtful face. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” Malik said. He had to get up to go get the lube off the second bed and then he was back, crawling over toward him. “Hands and knees,” he said. His voice was businesslike to a fault and Altair was going to say something about how unromantic it was. The thought must have been projecting out of his brain because Malik leaned forward to kiss him with his arm across Altair’s back and his body a close, familiar heat pressed all against his side. “I’m not going to fuck you like this. Relax.” But he did pull away again. 

“What are you going to do?” Altair asked.

“First, I’m going to eat your ass,” which might have been the crudest thing that Malik had _ever_ said to him. “Then I’m going to finger you and then if you like that, I’ll fuck you. But not like this.” 

“Oh,” Altair said. He wasn’t sure exactly he felt about the whole proposed series of events but he was willing to give it a try. “Do you like it?”

“Yes,” Malik said. His hand was warm and large on Altair’s ass. Altair had enough sex in his life that he had nearly no sense of same left in all of his body. He had even had a woman or two that were fond of the notion of his ass (besides Maria Thorpe) and not once had he ever thought it was a good enough idea to try out with a stranger. He had been in enough embarrassing situations in his life (a good majority of them sexual in nature) that even if his since of shame was reborn, he shouldn’t have been embarrassed by _this_. Even if it was only a moment, Altair was pretty sure the whole idea was the worst thing ever conceived. (And he thought of all the women who had laughed all in nerves when he tried to get his face between their thighs. It must have been something very much like this for them.) 

Malik was _good_ with his mouth (in more ways than just telling him what he’d done wrong). 

“Fuck,” Altair mumbled when he pressed his red face into the pillows. His fingers were caught between reaching back to shove Malik’s face in against his ass and curling up into the sheets to keep from doing anything too embarrassing. His dick—largely ignored by the whole proceeding—was throbbing in time with his heartbeat, insistently hard and impatient to be remembered. “Why is that I didn’t know you did this?”

Malik’s teeth dug into the meat of his ass in a nice way, nothing mean at all in it, before he said, “you didn’t ask.” He kissed Altair’s back as he reached for the lube and flicked the top open with his thumb. Then he held it out for Altair to take and tip it spill it on his fingers. “Why didn’t you say you liked it so much.”

“Well it’s a first for me,” Altair said. “I have had some girl stick her finger in my ass. Didn’t like that.”

“No?” Malik asked. “I don’t remember that sex story showing up in my inbox.” He was viciously cruel about his teasing. His voice casual and light (just having conversation) as he rubbed his finger up-down across Altair’s hole. Every nerve ending that he’d never spared much thought about was vividly aware of Malik’s nearness. “Did she use lube?”

“Uh, spit,” Altair said.

“That’s not lube,” Malik said. When he did finally push his finger into Altair it felt very much like a relief, a break from the constant _tease_ of something better. There was nothing fantastic about it necessarily except that it marked the end of the torture of wondering-and-wanting it. He sighed a breath he didn’t intend to let out. Then Malik’s pulled out again and laid down next to him. “Put your leg over my hip.” 

Altair rolled onto his side and put his leg across Malik’s body. He cupped his hand around his face to kiss him and then moved it down to squeeze at his bicep because the fingers found their way back to his ass. Malik’s evil fingertips were stroking back and forth across his hole, back to their insistent teasing. Malik kissed him with that same lazy intent, content now that he had the power to abuse it as he saw fit. “Whenever you’re ready,” Altair said against his mouth.

“You’re so impatient,” Malik countered. But he slid his finger back into Altair. The change in the angle made it feel different—strange and _new_. “You should probably get on top of me for the next part,” he said.

“I’m always on top of you,” Altair countered. 

“Ass.” Malik bit his lip just hard enough to make his point. He pushed a second finger into Altair with the first and that added stretch made his breath catch again. It was exactly as the first, neither good nor bad except for how he was rocking his hips to knock the blunt, wet tip of his dick against Malik’s belly. “I forgot to get the condom before I came over here.”

“I hate you,” Altair said. He took the time it took for Malik to go and fetch his stupid condom to roll onto his back and run his hand through his sweaty hair. He gave his dick a stroke too, like a promise, while he watched Malik put on a condom with only one hand in a show of dexterity that did not help his aggravated sense of arousal. “Come on,” he said. “It’s rude to leave me waiting.”

Malik was back between his legs with his eyebrows calling Altair a liar. They had to dig the lube out of the blankets. Then Malik scooted even closer, so his bent legs were under Altair’s thighs and his dick was wet-and-blunt, rubbing up against his asshole like the same promise that his mouth and his fingers had made. “But,” Malik said when he looked back up at his face, “if you aren’t here when I wake up tomorrow I will fucking castrate you and suffocate you with your own dick.”

“I promise I won’t leave you if you’re no good at fucking me,” Altair said. He grinned and Malik grinned back (very sarcastically) before he pushed forward and his dick was sliding _inside_. Far more than a simple finger, the stretch of it made Altair groan in a way that was entirely impossible to stop. His hands went from lazily over his head to gripping at Malik’s waist, a confusion of trying to push him away and keep him still and draw him closer. 

Malik’s hand curled around his wrist in a way that was meant to be comforting because he was rocking his hips, pushing in and out until he was sank-in-entirely. They were pressed together and Altair was trying to figure out how he felt about the whole thing. If it was a good feeling or a strange one and if he was ever going to do it again because there were good points (sure) but then ones that weren’t so fantastic. 

Some part of him was thinking, how awful it was, really, that he had gone off and fucked Malik for the first time while drunk because this kind of thing was monumental in its own right—getting fucked in the ass—and Malik had a perfectly average sized dick, was entirely sober and had enough experience to know how to be gentle and insistent in exactly the right measures.

“Hey,” Malik said. He leaned forward then, and the shift of his body made him move inside Altair and that was another experience he thought he’d never have. Malik’s hand was against the bed when he dipped down to kiss him. “You’re supposed to enjoy this.” Then he started rocking his hips like they were going to be here _all day_ and Altair didn’t even know what to do with his hands or his legs. His knees were pulled up by his chest but his feet were just bobbling along to the motion. He wrapped his legs around Malik for lack of anything better to do. 

One of his hands was holding onto his shoulder and the other was down, running along the familiar scars on his side. It felt _good_ in a way entirely different than he was used to. It felt _good_ to be pressed into the bed, to watch Malik’s face caught up in the sensation of fucking him, to feel him moving in-and-out. It was _good_ to feel the thrum of his heartbeat under his fingers. Oh it was _glorious_ because Malik kissed him like he’d never wanted anything in life the way he wanted _this_. Maybe he always kissed him like that, or maybe he was just trying to keep Altair from suffocating himself from lack of breathing. 

“It is good,” Altair said when he let out the breath he’d been holding for _hours_ (so it felt). 

“It’s better when you’re not holding your breath,” Malik assured him. Then he kissed him again. Altair held onto him, arms and legs, until the steady thrust of his hips grew ragged at the edges and his whole body was quivering with the tightening need to orgasm. It was _incredible_ to feel it that way. “It’s been a while,” Malik said like he was embarrassed. 

“Do it,” Altair said. He tightened his legs and Malik _groaned_. It brought him to a standstill in a way different then when they were opposite. Malik-getting-fucked was pushing and mean while orgasming, always telling him what to do and how to do it, digging greedy fingernails into his skin and cursing him. But Malik-fucking-him was bitten-lip, body-shaking, sweet-kisses and soft noises. “Can you fuck me still?” he asked. 

Malik nodded, jerked his hips in harder-shorter-thrusts than before and Altair matched him with both hands pulling at his own dick until he came with a sudden-shock, all at once surprised by the intensity of his own orgasm. 

After, sticky and hot and separate, Malik hadn’t even finished catching his breath but he found enough wind to say, “I forgot how much I liked that.”

“Well you’re stupid,” Altair said. And he laughed when Malik pinched him. “I could do that again. So don’t forget.”

Malik rolled onto his side and kissed Altair again. 

\--

bestofthree: if all the world could just aspire to be as lovely as @notyourbrother, there would be peace on earth. For at least a minute. (2m ago)

It didn’t occur to Kadar until he walked into the prom that he didn’t actually like a good ninety-five percent of the people that he went to school with. And while they wouldn’t say anything to him (not since Altair did whatever he did), they conveyed their distaste for him with their faces.

Claudia slid her arm around his back. “I forgot how stupid and young high schoolers are. Look at them gawking at you. What do you think they are thinking?”

“My brother got his rich boyfriend to send his pretty girl cousin to be my date because I’m a pathetic wimp that got beat up by two jocks and a stoner?” Kadar stopped them near the door, not far enough into the room to invite anyone that he didn’t know to come and bother him but far enough in that they weren’t blocking the entrance. “I don’t know why I came here. I mean—I knew why I was going to come with Stephanie because she was my girlfriend but—”

Claudia looked out at the crowd, scanned them for the few people that were still paying attention to them. Then she looked back at him, “I will not tell you want to do. I will not give you advice because I would take vicious pleasure in their confusion and jealousy. I will stay if you stay or go if you go. But I insist that you show me the coward that hit you.”

“I want them to know I don’t care about them,” Kadar said. “Some of them have followed me for twelve years, saying the same bullshit all the way through. I want them to know they didn’t do anything to me.”

Then Claudia slid forward and lifted her hand up to cup it around his neck. She pulled him down so their foreheads were touching. Her pointed noise against the round end of his. “They know or they would not have had to try so hard. Take me to the foolish boy that hurt you. And tell me his name.” Then she kissed his cheek and took his hand. 

Clyde was easy to find in the crowd. He was a popular guy, surrounded by people who wanted his attention and his approval. Kadar had spent a week not listening to how all of the group was going to coordinate their outfits and how they were going to an after-party somewhere. Claudia must have recognized him from the primal fear that made his long-smooth words stutter to a halt because Kadar didn’t even have to lift a finger to point him out.

“Clyde,” she said with _glowing_ warmth. She let go of Kadar and sliced through his crowd of friends like a knife. Her arms were slim around his unmoving body when she hugged him and her fingers were paler than his when she touched his face with affection. “It is so nice to meet you. My cousin told me so much about you.” And her smile was polite to the point of pain. “How have you been? Smarter, I hope?”

“Uh,” Clyde said. He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded, “good, yeah. I’m smarter.”

Claudia slid her arm back around Kadar. “Good.” Then she smiled at all the others that were just staring at her (and him). She looked up at Kadar like they were irrelevant trash and only he mattered, “should we dance?”

Kadar smiled back at her. “Yeah, I think we should dance.”

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> How is it?
> 
> Oh, Claudia threatened half the graduating class
> 
> We danced a couple of songs
> 
> And now we’re at a waffle place
> 
> Which half?
> 
> Pretty much anyone that looked at her
> 
> A few of them came up to tell her they always liked me
> 
> She commended them on their good taste and then threatened them. So now everyone thinks I’m her boyfriend
> 
> Sounds like it was fun.
> 
> It was

Claudia did not chew like the lady she looked like wearing a web of diamonds and a red-red prom dress. She licked salt off her fingers and slurped her soda. “It would just be irresponsible to get a pet now. You know?”

“No,” Kadar said. “I don’t. You’re smart, you want one, you’re capable emotionally and financially of taking care of a dog. That dog loved you. So I don’t get the hesitation.”

Then she dusted her fingers off on a paper napkin and stared at him like she couldn’t’ come up with a proper answer to the statement before plucking the menu off the tray at the side of the table. “I want dessert.” She made a show of looking through the dessert menu before she said, “but what would I name it? And what happens if I can’t take care of him?”

“You could give him to Altair. I don’t know much about dogs but I know London is pretty damn well trained already. But if you could stop making contingency plans for a minute and just think—this will work out great. I’ll name my dog Pecan and I’ll buy him cute butch collars to make up for how he got his balls cut off and I’ll take him on walks after school and hire someone to babysit him while I’m in class—that would be great.” He put down his fork and licked the syrup off his fingers before reaching across the table to pluck the menu out of her hand.

“Pecan?” she repeated. “I am not naming my dog Pecan.” Then she just sighed. “I really did like him. I thought there was a connection, he seemed to like me.” She looked forlornly down at her fries. 

“I’m not telling you what to do, I’m just saying I found a cat in a puddle and we worked out fine. If the dog loved you and you loved him, I don’t understand what your hesitation is. Want to buy two of these giant sundaes and see who eats it faster?” He flipped the menu around to show her the picture of the sundaes (a mammoth thing that his Mother had only ever allowed them to have once in all his life). 

“Yes,” Claudia said. “But you will lose.”

“Oh, bring it,” he said. Then he flagged down the waitress to order the desert. 

\--

notyourbrother: I acknowledge that @bestofthree is superior to me in every conceivable way. Except height. (2m ago)

It was midnight, at least, and Claudia was walking next to him, carrying her heels dangling from her two fingers, looking up at the stars that could barely be seen past the glowing haze of the street lights. She made a long slow-sound, all the air leaving in a hum, and then said, “I love my Mother,” like it had been weighing on her for days. “I remember how she was before Petruccio died. I love the mother that she was before. I am so angry at the person she is now. I am so _furious_ that she could not love us enough to let him go.” Claudia looked over at him then and her smile was sad all around the edges. “I have been holding her hand for years, waiting for her to find her way back to the woman that held me in her lap and read books to me in the evening. The one that taught me how to cook and how to brush my hair. I long for the Mother I had. The one that cared when I cried. The one that hugged my brothers. She is not gone. I know that she is there still; deeply buried.”

“I’m sorry,” Kadar said.

“Do not be. We all make choices. We are in limbo, my brothers and I. Freedom and hope is possible for us if we only break from our parents. As long as we remain with them, we are captives of the people they have become.” Then she stopped moving altogether. The starlight and the lamp light sparkled in the diamonds but drew long shadows on her face. 

“You can stay at our house if you need a room,” Kadar said. “You know, until your trust fund matures?”

Claudia laughed. Then she took his hand and pulled him forward down the sidewalk toward his house. “I would not be homeless. I think I will go tomorrow and adopt Pecan. If he’s still there. Would you go with me?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. But then, also, “thanks for going to prom with me.”

“It was truly a pleasure,” Claudia said. She even pulled him down with arm around his shoulder to kiss his cheek.

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> If you’re actually up, we’re making breakfast at eight if you want to come home.

Malik woke up to the obnoxious chime of his phone alerting him to a message. The sound was overlaid with the TV echoing through the thin wall separating their room from the one next door. He moaned a complaint into the pillow and rubbed his face with his hand. Outside the door there was a metallic sort of clank and rumble, the sound of the early morning cleaning ladies coming to shoo people out of their rooms. When he opened his eyes, he looked out from under the safe cocoon of blankets to eye the mess of dirty clothes on the floor and the chair. Altair’s pants from the night before were lying across the dresser and one of Malik’s socks was balled up on the table (but he couldn’t remember why). 

The chime of his phone alerting him to a message made him grimace so he reached out to grab it and knocked the cheap clock off the bedside table. It was after eleven according to the lock screen on his phone and Kadar had given up on trying to raise him from the dead after a series of dirty innuendos gave way to him saying he was going to pick up a dog with Claudia. 

The maid that was pushing her squeaky cart down the hall outside the door jiggled the handle and Malik rolled onto his back to ask Altair if they had put up the do not disturb sign and found him missing. He didn’t have time to process his exact set of feelings about that unfortunate coincidence before the door was opened and the maid stepped inside only far enough to see him lying (naked under the blankets) on the bed. 

“Did you need towels?” she asked.

“No,” Malik said before he could even remember if they’d used any towels. “Uh,” he added, “we don’t need anything right now. Thank you.”

The maid nodded her head and left without so much as batting an eye about how he was naked (and alone) in the hotel room. As soon as she was gone again, Malik sat up and kicked all the covers off. He looked around the room—at the second bed, perfectly made—and the dresser (littered with snack wrappers) and then back at the messy bed he’d been sleeping in. Nowhere he looked had a note to tell him what had happened to Altair. 

He checked his phone and found it completely empty of any explanation. So he got up and went to the bathroom (thinking uncharitable thoughts the whole way). 

The bathroom was perfectly clean save for the towel thrown over the top of the curtain rod and the rag laying in the bottom of the tub. He dragged his bag out from under the sink to dig out something to put on while he waited. And then went back out to sit on the end of the nicely made bed while he contemplating sending threatening texts to Altair-the-disappearing-act. He was seconds from standing up to text _furious_ things when the door opened again.

Altair walked in carrying a pizza box, looking innocent and _perfectly guilty_ all at once. “Oh,” he said when he saw Malik, “I thought I’d make it back before you got up.” Then he held out the pizza box (and Malik couldn’t be sure but he was pretty sure it was the same fucking pizza they’d gotten three years ago), “I was hungry and pizza was closest. Want some?” There was absolutely no part of Altair that wasn’t completely aware of what he was doing.

“I hate you,” Malik said without getting up.

Altair set the pizza on the dresser, nudged it up under the flat screen TV sitting on top of it. “No you don’t,” he said with absolute authority.

“Oh I think I do,” Malik assured him. Then he reached out and dragged Altair over by the belt buckle. He came easily enough, spread his legs and sat in Malik’s lap without protest. His arms rested across Malik’s shoulders. “You’re not funny,” he said.

Altair kissed him on the nose. “Yes I am.” His smile was so sincere there was no way that Malik could have kept from mirroring it. “Just a little funny?”

Malik pretended to think about it, “just enough to keep me from castrating you,” he conceded. He might have said something else but Altair kissed him with the smell of that stupid pizza hanging in the air like perfume.


	75. Chapter 75

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to everyone that has spent a year going on this journey with me, to all of you lovely people who have joined in the middle, or to anyone that finds this later: thank you. this was truly an experience. I have deeply enjoyed all of the comments, all of your stories and thoughts. 
> 
> Please enjoy this epilogue to make up for all those times I hurt you.

son-of-no-one: I can neither confirm nor deny that @sass-badger, tried on those dresses as a bet (13m ago)

Son-of-no-one: I can definitely say that he’s still a man and neither one of us are pregnant. Despite what the fanfic authors would have you believe. (10m ago)

Airports had become sadly commonplace in Malik’s life. He could track the passage of time by the arguments seared into the seats in the first class lounge. The nicks and the little gouges in the arm rests were familiar under his fingers the way the ever-changing staff at the bar was not.

Seven years ago, they were still arguing about what house to buy and how to renovate it, sitting in the last set of seats, waiting for first class to be called. Malik was sick with nerves over airplanes and flying while Altair was bored of trying to reassure him it was statistically safer. 

Five years ago, in an airport with lavender seats, Altair had thrown a fit about how he didn’t want to go to his Uncle’s funeral. The sum of his reasoning being nothing more than ‘I’m sick of going to funerals. Stop telling me when people die.’ Which was a rich and stupid sentiment coming from a man with a wrist tattoo keeping track of dates his parents died. (The ink on the fourth date, of course, the very darkest still.)

Three years ago, in the middle of a snowstorm that grounded all the planes, they had turned the first class lounge into a boxing ring for all the shouting they did about whether or not they ever wanted children. The fight had come from nowhere, born of the boredom of waiting, the unanswered invitation to attend the christening of Federico’s third child. (An invitation that was declined on the solid basis of, ‘well we didn’t go to the other two’.) Altair had stood between the seats and the bars shouting, “just because you were fucked up doesn’t mean all children will be.” Malik didn’t hit him but he thought about it.

Last year, they fell sleep in the seats, leaning their shoulders against one another—exhausted by travelling too long between Europe and home, and they missed their connecting flight. 

“I hate airports,” Malik said.

“Yup,” Altair agreed. He didn’t seem terribly concerned about the statement. (Then again, he hadn’t seemed concerned about it for the past three years either.) Rather than spend too much time worrying about it, he looked toward the entrance of the lounge like he could force Desmond and Lucy to materialize out of thin air. When that failed, he turned his head and looked down at Malik’s phone. “What are you adding?”

“I am not adding anything. My stupid brother is commenting on how adorable our fictional children would be. And—” He scrolled down a bit farther, “now him and Claudia are arguing about which of us would be the worse pregnant person.”

“You,” Altair said without pause. Then he leaned back into the seat, tongue across his lips and body tipped to see the tweets. Malik scrolled down the screen just slightly slower than average to give him time to read them. When that amusement ran out (five minutes later), he went back to staring at the entrance.

“The plane is late,” Malik pointed out. He might have said more but Altair was all but vibrating with impatient agitation at his side. So he tucked his phone into the front pocket of his jeans and stood up. “Come on,” he said, “I’m hungry.”

“Oh no,” Altair said up at him. “Nope. We agreed that we would never eat in an airport again ever since that time you cut me off for a month.”

“That was _four years ago_ ,” Malik said. He was actually (legitimately) hungry as opposed to the many other times he had attempted to drag Altair somewhere with food just to distract him. “Didn’t we agree that we weren’t going to keep holding grudges against one another based on thing we did more than three years ago?”

“We didn’t have sex for a month,” Altair said. 

“That had nothing to do with the airport food.”

“It had everything to do with the airport food. You looked at the price of a cheeseburger and we ended up fighting about the correct percentages of our monthly income to donate and then you called me a racist spoiled rich boy and we didn’t have sex for a month.”

“You _literally said_ that it wasn’t your problem kids were starving in _Africa_. Your counter argument to donating money was that _kids needed to starve_ or overpopulation would destroy the earth!” To this day, every time Altair brought up the argument (because it was always him that did it), he got the same stupid grin on his face. The one that meant he knew what he said was awful and yet it amused him. 

“I did not specify that children needed to starve,” Altair said. “I’m not eating with you in airport again. It aggravates you.” Then he looked back over at the entrance. When Malik leaned forward to pick up his bag and went around the chairs to go find a vending machine (at the very least), Altair just waved at him with the same smile. 

\--

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> I would like you to know that I gave up an exotic weekend with a beautiful woman for this.
> 
> Don’t blame me for your poor life choices

Altair gave up sitting still about the same time Malik was walking back with his vending machine snacks. Rather than let him sit back down (and chew the chips very close to his left ear), Altair got up and picked up his own bag. He motioned them out of the lounge and out to the hallway that divided the gates from the terminal beyond.

“That fight wasn’t really about a cheeseburger,” Malik said after a moment. After a minute of the complicated matter of holding a bag of chips and eating them with only one hand, he handed the bag to Altair to carry. 

“I am intelligent enough to know that. However, I prefer to take no chances. We had a fight every time we went to that pretentious bar off campus and you kept telling me it had nothing to do with the bar. You told me for two years that you liked the fries. Every time we went there we had a fight.”

“I did like the fries.” Malik’s protest was undermined by the fact that he had absolutely no evidence to support his claim the bar had nothing to do with the fights. “I concede,” he offered, “that we stopped fighting as often when we stopped going but I don’t agree that the two were related.”

“Ha,” Altair said to that. They turned around before they got to the exit of the gate and walked back toward the lounge. They made almost one revolution in silence except for the rustle of the chip bag and the sound of Malik’s chewing. It was only when they neared the exit of the gate again that he said, “I don’t want your Mother’s opinion making this decision for us. It has nothing to do with Lamah. I want to know that we’re capable of choosing on our own.” 

Malik took the empty chip bag from him and threw it in the first trash can they passed. They stopped there, close enough to smell the sour coffee and the dirty diapers in the can. Malik looked precise with his fresh-cut hair and his neatly shaven face. He said, “the benefit of family is that they listen and they give advice. We have already been given advice by every member of your family. If Edward’s opinion cannot be blamed for our choice, neither can my Mother’s.”

“Edward’s advice was incidental. I didn’t say, I have to go talk to Edward before I can decide if we should have a baby this year.” Altair wanted the words to sound more sincere and useful but Malik was looking at him with his ‘listening face’ and which was the full depth of his attention focused entirely on what he was hearing. That was the face of every resolution to every argument they ever had, the one that directly preceded sex on a consistent ninety-seven percent basis. (And consequently, the one that had become almost assuredly one of the sexiest expressions Malik ever made.) 

“It stops being incidental when you find a way to shoe-horn ‘so who thinks I should be trusted with a baby’ into casual conversation with every one of our friends or family. The only difference between Edward’s advice and my Mother’s I that I’m aware I want hers.” Then Malik raised his eyebrows like issuing a challenge that his words be proven wrong, when Altair said nothing, he added, “so do you. The decisions is ours. That’s what’s important.”

\--

> **Altair**
> 
> It’s hard to meet you somewhere you aren’t.
> 
> We’re in the hallway.

“Switch,” Lucy said almost as soon as he put his phone back in his pocket. She lifted Peyton up for him to get an arm around and took the carry-on bag (full of the many things that were meant to amuse Peyton and failed). Peyton (blessed with all of her Mother’s expressions) immediately sneered at him. Her chubby elbows pointed out the way they always did when she stuffed her hands up under her armpits. “Where is he?” Lucy asked. 

“Hallway.” Desmond was going to pick up the second bag (a book bag full of the things that were meant to amuse Lucy and him, also largely unused on the flight from hell) but Lucy grabbed it before he could get his hand on the strap. “I was going to carry that.”

“I got it,” Lucy said with the very last shred of patience in her entire body. “Let’s get Peyton to her favorite person before the screaming begins again.” There were one or two businessman types that followed them into the first class lounge, still gawking at them with disbelief that their toddler had thrown such a long and inconsolable tantrum. Lucy was sneering back at them in a way that was not nearly as benign as it was being treated. 

If not for the agreement they’d made when they left the in-law’s house, Desmond might have consoled Peyton with the promise of seeing Altair and Malik (who she loved above all others). Lucy had insisted that since Peyton thought the average cartoon episode was ‘sixteen hours’ and her bedtime was at ‘two in the morning’ that she couldn’t understand the length of time it would take to get to her uncles and therefore any attempt to promise them to her would end with her screaming. (The fact that she screamed the whole way made that agreement seem moot but it was still the agreement they made.) Instead, Desmond just followed Lucy out of the lounge, around two corners and into the long hall that separated the gate from the terminal. 

“Where the fuck are they?” Lucy demanded just before they came into sight. Peyton was so busy gasping in shock that her Mother used bad words that she missed the exact moment her uncles were finally in her grasp. “I know,” Lucy said to the girl. “Go tell on me.” She pointed down the hall and Peyton turned her head.

“Malik!” she screamed. (It sounded, some days like ‘owlick’ and some days like ‘baluck’ and almost never like Malik should have sounded.) Peyton kicked and squirmed until she was set on the ground and then immediate took off running down the slanting hall. 

Lucy sighed, “one day she’ll love us as much as she loves him.”

Desmond snorted and put his arm across her shoulders to pull her in against his chest. Lucy tipped her head up. Her hair was a disaster, she was making one of her purposefully ugly unhappy faces and she had the distinct smell of having forgotten to put on deodorant that morning. (A fact that Peyton had pointed out three times on the flight.) “But if that happens, we’ll have nobody to babysit.” Then he kissed her because they were finally free from the hellish eternity of that stupid plane. “Let me take the bag now. You know she’s not going to let him put her down.”

Lucy handed over the bag and took a minute to fix her ponytail. Desmond finished walking over to Altair and Malik. Both of whom were far more interested in his daughter than him. Peyton was retelling the events of the plane ride in English so barely understandable that he (as her Father) only managed to translate ‘wouldn’t let me up’ and ‘I don’t like peanuts’. 

“Did you scream the whole time?” Malik asked her. Altair wiped the stray tear still glistening on her cheek with his thumb. While he did it, Peyton got a look that wouldn’t have been out of place on the war-weary veteran’s face when asked to recall a hard-won battle.

Her whole body shuddered with a sigh and looked at Malik’s face directly when she said, “yeah.”

Altair smiled but he moved away before he got caught finding her anguish funny. (The consequence of laughing at her under the circumstances would be running the risk of making her cry again.) Instead, he stepped up to hug Desmond. “Great flight?” he asked.

“Oh. The best.” Desmond motioned back over his shoulder. “We made a lot of new friends.”

“That bitch in the seat behind us is lucky I didn’t sauté his testicles.” Lucy pulled Altair into a hug too. Hers was a hug more violent than Desmond’s. “When are we supposed to drive down to Malik’s house?”

“Tomorrow morning,” Altair said. He kept his arm on Lucy’s shoulders the way she kept her arm around his back. “Ideally between eight and ten in the morning. Maria’s plane is supposed to get here tonight at seven?” He looked over at Malik, “hey, Maria’s plane is coming at seven?”

“Yes,” Malik answered. He momentarily attempted to look at the adults that were having a conversation. Peyton tipped her whole body to the side to block his view of them. One of her chubby little hands coiled up in Malik’s shirt over his shoulder in the way she’d learned (very early on) kept her from falling off her perch on his arm. His response to this rudeness was a very calm explanation of how she couldn’t reasonably expect him to look at nothing else but her.

If Desmond tried to tell her she was being inconsiderate, she threw a fit. When Lucy tried to explain to her how to behave, she curled up her nose and stuck out her tongue. As far as he knew Altair had never and possibly would never actually attempt to correct her behavior (and that was why he was never invited to babysit). 

“Good,” Lucy said, “then you’ve got a few hours to babysit.” 

Altair looked down at her with narrowed eyes and an unconvincing frown. They glared at one another for nearly a solid minute before Altair finally said, “fine but you can’t suddenly have to study for an exam the next time Federico brings his kids for a visit.”

“I actually _had_ an exam,” Lucy said.

“Every time Federico comes over,” Altair finished for her. 

Malik was looking over at them with a sigh. Desmond shrugged and pointed forward. Malik nodded and the two of them started the long walk to the baggage claim. Peyton briefly pointed out that they were leaving Mom and Altair behind before Malik assured her they would follow (sooner or later). 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> Are you going to the high school reunion Saturday?
> 
> I don’t know
> 
> Altair thinks we should go
> 
> Of course he does. He always has to show you off at parties.
> 
> Maybe he wants to be the arm candy for once.
> 
> That is supremely logical
> 
> We RSVPed that would attend.
> 
> Well then you should

Peyton fell asleep five minutes after Malik set her down on the couch. It was only enough time for him to ask her which book she’d like for him to read and for her to point all slobbery-fingered at her favorite. He had only made it a page and a half before she was completely asleep. Extracting himself from under her sweaty cheek and gently lowering her down to lay flat on the couch was the stuff of Mission Impossible episodes. There was a blanket in her bag that he pulled out and laid over her.

Malik went to let the cats out of their room. Aquila seemed happy enough to have full run of the condo again but Attila was laying lazily at the top of his cat castle, long dark tail hanging over the side and eyes squinted shut. He went over to pet the cat who only meowed and rolled out of reach but watched him leaving anyway. 

Altair came back from walking London and only just realized that Petyon was asleep on the couch in time to grab the little dog before she bounded up onto the couch (as she often did) or started barking at Aquila (which she still did despite their best efforts to make it stop). “See, she never sleeps for me.”

“It’s hard to sleep when you’re being taught how to do cartwheels and somersaults.” Malik picked up the remote for the game system to find some nature lullaby station to listen to. He was never precisely fond of having to listen to rustling wind, rolling oceans or bird calls for two hours at a time but he begrudgingly respected the request Peyton’s parents had made that she be allowed to listen to it. “Or whatever you were thinking that day you made six dozen cookies with her?”

“I remember specifically stating that I didn’t know enough about children to be left in charge of her emotional or physical well-being.” But that had been almost nine months ago now, back when they were first entrusted with the care of the child. London must have finally seen Aquila—lean and black—over by the windows because she started barking like a moron. The suddenness of her shrill barking startled Peyton in her sleep but didn’t wake her. “I’ll put her in the room,” Altair said. 

Malik went to find something for dinner. The trouble with having been gone (for two weeks, split between Edward’s exile yacht and Federico’s sunny California estate) was that it was always uncertain what he’d find in the fridge when he returned. There was a very small standing grocery order but it didn’t include any sort of perishable food. Normally, they would just go to Desmond’s for dinner but they had only just gotten home from visiting Lucy’s parents for a few weeks. He was still standing in front of the fridge, staring into the bleached-white empty inside when Altair came back. He sighed in time with Altair wrapping his arms around him. “So, do we order, eat out or go shopping?”

“It’s four o’clock now, we have to babysit for two hours, I have to go back to the airport at seven. Peyton is going to wake up starving.” Which was much more important than whatever time-related obstacles they had in their life. They said, “order in,” almost simultaneously. 

Malik swung the fridge door shut but Altair didn’t let go of him or move to get the menus for their favorite take-out places. Rather he just rested his chin against Malik’s shoulder. “We could be good parents, couldn’t we?” Altair asked. “I mean, Desmond’s a good father. Edward’s practically father of the year. Even Federico is a good Dad.”

“There really was nowhere to go but up for them,” Malik said. It wasn’t the nicest thing to say but it was still true. “I think parenthood is something that we could not possibly predict.” He felt the way Altair wanted to sigh at him, at that same line, at this same argument. “I know that you’ve argued in favor of having a child but you’ve never actually argued based on the fact that you want one.” Malik turned in the close circle of Altair’s arms to look at his face, all slanted with disagreeable sentiment. “Since I’m not fully convinced that I want a child because I _want a child_ and not because it’s expected or because we’ve been the choice was just abruptly given to us to have one or not, I’m still hesitant.”

“I think it would have been easier to decide if our decision didn’t have to be so deliberate,” but Altair didn’t argue the point. “I mean, Desmond and Lucy wanted a kid all they had to do was keep doing what they were. We have to get third-party assistance.” He let go of Malik then and went to pull open the drawer of menus. “So are we going to the high school reunion?”

“Kadar says we should because it’d give you the chance to be the arm candy,” Malik pulled the Thai menu out of the possible options and set it on top.

“Well he’s not wrong,” Altair said. “We should go. I’ll wear one of my nice suits. You can introduce me as your rich, hot, amazing—”

“What percentage of these people do you think care about me? I’m pretty sure ninety percent of my graduating class didn’t even know who I was before I gave the speech at graduation. Why would they care now?” 

Altair just smiled at him and reached over to pluck at his shirt collar like it proved something he was about to say. “Because you’ll be wearing clothes that cost the same amount as their monthly grocery bill.” Then he tugged Malik forward by the belt loops so he was close enough to be indecent. “And because you get to go home after and fuck me and if that doesn’t make them jealous we can pass out cards with our annual charitable donations, fine print: a small percentage of our yearly income.” He tipped his head down to kiss him. 

(And that was pretty damn indecent too.)

\--

> **Maria Thorpe**
> 
> I swear to god if you are late picking me up because you were fucking your boyfriend I will never forgive you.
> 
> I gave up an entire weekend of sex for this.
> 
> Would you get over that?
> 
> You can flirt with Lamah
> 
> I would fuck Lamah.
> 
> This is a fact you should not share with Malik or Kadar
> 
> It’s a compliment. She’s a beautiful woman. Her ass is amazing.
> 
> Again, information not to be shared

Maria had the distinct look of a woman who intended to murder the next person who tried to speak to her. She had all but shaved her head for her last role and it had grown back slow, and thick and _dark_ in a way that made her pale skin look bright-white. She wore black when she travelled and red-red lipstick. 

“Why are you late?”

“I was watching a movie with Peyton.” He shrugged. He didn’t mention how it was the same stupid movie about the singing ice princesses that he’d watched so many times he could probably have recited the stupid move from the opening credits to the last word spoken. From the look of sour disbelief on Maria’s face she didn’t really need to be told. 

“Men,” she said with her hands thrown up in the air. “All of you are helpless against girls. I hope you do not have a daughter. She would have your empire in a minute.” Then she picked up her bag and put it over her shoulder. “Can I take you out for a drink? Is that allowed?”

“Yeah,” Altair said. 

They went to the bar where Desmond usually worked because it was convenient and familiar to them. Maria got them a table with her VIP smile and they sat on opposite sides of it, quiet and sipping drinks. She was currently single, currently watching a small clutch of pretty women that were shooting her glances, all giggling smiles and dirty thoughts. 

“Every time I break up with a girlfriend, I wonder why I would subject myself to such hell. Commitment, monogamy? These are poisonous thoughts! Every time I am single, I am rich with beautiful women and careless sex and I get lonely for companionship. Why can’t I have both? Companionship and freedom?” 

“You could if you found someone that wanted the same.”

“No,” Maria said. She stopped shooting flirting glances at the ladies to look at him. “I wouldn’t share well. It would make me unhappy but I couldn’t be you either. The same man for seven years? How do you keep from stagnating?”

Altair snorted, “well, it helps that he keeps evolving as a person.”

“No, I meant sexually.” Maria crossed her legs under the table and leaned away from him in a way that gave the host of ladies begging for her attention a good view of her body. It also displayed her carelessness at their need. “How do you keep that from getting boring? Or going stale?”

“Checklists?” 

Maria’s expression accused him for being a stupid liar but she also leaned forward so their voices were small between them, “I thought you weren’t serious about that.” Because he had mentioned it before, how Malik had randomly shown up one day with a long checklist of sexual activities and fantasies and kinks that they had never tried (and some they had never heard of) and proposed that they work their way through the list (after excluding definite hard no’s from it). “There is a checklist?”

“Yes,” Altair said. It had been _ludicrous_ at its inception, the sort of thing that became embarrassing story fodder. And while he was pretty sure the retelling of that night they dressed up like gladiators and fucked would be sufficiently embarrassing, it had been immensely pleasing at the same time. “I told you there was a checklist. I’m not telling you what’s on it.”

“Tease,” Maria said. “I heard Ezio is dating someone now as well. Soon all of you will be paired off. Old and content.”

“I’m twenty nine,” Altair protested. “If I’m old then you’re old.” He might have said more except for how Maria had gone back to flirting with the pretty women. “Why don’t you just go over there? Just don’t go home with the blonde girl, she looks like she has TMZ on speed dial. That one in the blue dress has been looking at you and blushing for ten straight minutes, I think you should go ask her to dance.”

“Which one in the blue dress?”

Altair pointed at her (discreetly), “that one.”

“I can’t go ask that one,” Maria countered, “she’s behind all of them. You go ask her and I’ll ask the blonde and we switch on the dance floor?” 

“Fine,” Altair said. Then he picked up his drink and took a long swallow of it before he got to his feet. Maria got up far more daintily, all long limbs and hips, smiling her most provocative smile as she walked straight at the women who were waiting to adore her.

\--

> **Leonardo**
> 
> Am I supposed to meet you at your Mother’s house or your brother’s apartment?
> 
> Kadar’s place
> 
> Are you there already?
> 
> Yes. It is the benefit of being a single man with no children or pets.
> 
> I get everywhere I want to go on time.
> 
> The downfall is you have to flirt for every fuck
> 
> Slow, late, paired off people like me only have to snap their fingers
> 
> I thought you took puppy play off your list.
> 
> I did
> 
> But I’m still incredibly hot
> 
> This is true.

They would have left at the correct time (between eight and ten) if not for the fact that Altair had come home drunk and hysterically laughing with Maria hanging off his arm—smudged red lipstick and unbuttoned blouse—noticeably _without_ the car. (The problem wasn’t even that Altair only had one car because he had more than one. More importantly, as they were all driving together, they would not be taking the smaller car.) 

So during the time they should have been leaving, Altair was hungover and surly while Maria was quiet and dull sipping tea and eating crackers at the table. The car had to be located and returned. Altair got someone to do it for him but it required two phone calls and ten minutes of explaining everything. A shower took ten minutes under perfect conditions and twenty six minutes when Altair was hungover. 

Desmond and Lucy showed up an hour after they said they would. Peyton threw a fit as soon as she saw the car, screamed about how she wasn’t going back to the airplane no matter what they did. Convincing her that they weren’t going back to the plane took ten minutes.

Lucy and Malik ended up in the back on either side of Peyton while Maria laid in the very back of the SUV, snoozing off the remainder of her hangover (and jetlag) with London sleeping on her chest.

“Hey,” Lucy said with her arm over the top of the car seat and her finger poking his shoulder. She glanced toward the front of the car to be sure Desmond and Altair were still arguing about the exact ingredients in Federico’s miracle cure. Then she said, “we’re moving out of the city. We finally found a house.” It wasn’t a secret that Lucy-and-Desmond had been looking for a house outside of the city. But it was the sort of open knowledge that was rendered moot by the fact that they’d been ‘looking for a house’ since Lucy got pregnant. Peyton turned two in two months; the immediacy of worry over the move had faded.

“Is there a second one for sale close by?” Malik asked. There was no true humor in the question. Lucy-and-him smiled about it because they’d made a joke of it back when they first discussed it. He expected her to laugh but she pulled out her phone instead and pulled up a house listing. “I don’t know if I should find this amusing or not.”

“I don’t know if amusing is the right word but you know how Altair likes to have a house everywhere he visits for more than a few weeks.” She handed him the phone for him to thumb through the information on the listing. Peyton pulled his hand over just enough she could see the words and pictures as well. “It’s a nice house,” Lucy added. “Not extravagant but still nice. There’s room for improvement which makes him happy. It’s actually behind the house we’re buying.”

“So we can just fence off the entire space between our houses?” Malik said without prompting. “You can use it as a guest house for your annoying cousins when they visit.” He sighed. “Is Desmond going to tell him?”

“Yeah,” Lucy said. She took her phone back. “But after.”

“Did you already call the realtor to schedule a viewing of the house for tomorrow morning?” Malik looked forward at the back of Altair’s seat and then pulled out his own phone, “what was the address?”

“I didn’t but I can,” Lucy said. She listed off the address for him. 

\--

notyourbrother: @guyfawkes23, my brother actually said he’s going to play paintball in the dress. As soon as we have a date I’ll send you an invite. (21m ago)

Kadar answered the door wearing his hastily thrown on shorts and a towel around his shoulders, quietly hoping that it was his brother standing on the other side of the door and not anyone else. As luck would have it, Malik was there looking hassled and annoyed at his phone screen. “You have terrible timing,” Kadar said.

Malik only looked up because he was spoken too. “Because you were in the shower?” He stepped into Kadar’s little apartment and almost immediately turned his head toward the sound of the shower still running, “why didn’t you turn the water off?”

If he had been given only one more minute of his life to come up with an answer to that question, he might have managed to think up an inventive half-truth to explain it. As it turned out, the water was turned off in the next second and Malik’s inquisitive confusion became hard-edged demand. “I…wasn’t in there by myself?” Kadar said. He pulled the towel off his neck to rub against his chest and sighed, “let me go put a shirt on before you start in on the twenty questions.”

“I don’t have twenty questions,” Malik protested, “I have two questions.” Which was a promise he couldn’t keep as he followed Kadar toward the small hallway that led to the bathroom and hallway. “Where’s Leonardo?”

“He went over to see Mom since you’re an hour and a half late,” Kadar said.

The bathroom door opened with a puff of hot steam and Claudia—all petal pink from the heat of the water (and the sex, really, that they just had) stepped out wearing her hastily thrown on clothes. She was rubbing her hair in the towel; smiling with zero shame or sense of inevitable doom. 

Malik stopped short in the hallway, eyes narrowed and finger pointed at them from around his phone. “Now I have twenty questions.”

“Let me put on a shirt,” Kadar said. “Go sit, don’t text.” He made a face at Claudia (who was not supposed to just waltz out wearing nothing but a long sleep shirt, looking decidedly sinful in every possible way) and she just shrugged.

“We have talked about telling them,” she said.

“I’m not ready to get killed by your brothers,” Kadar hissed back, “I’m only twenty five.”

Claudia rolled her eyes. But she also kissed him because he was frowning and it was a decent compromise. (So soon after she had been gloriously naked and gloriously wrapped around him whispering his name in between lewd Italian demands, he was willing to forgive her for most things in exchange for sweet promising kisses.) “Go put a shirt on. I’ll wait until you’re finished before I get dressed.” 

Kadar never found a shirt so fast in his entire life. When he came back out to the living room, Claudia was sitting next to Malik, legs crossed at the knee, agreeing with him about something that was on his phone screen. Sailor—a great fluff of white fur—had found his way to her lap. His haughty face winking a challenge at Kadar all the while she stroked her hand down his back. “Alright, I’m back,” he said.

“Oh good.” Claudia got to her feet, picked up Sailor as she did, and handed him to Kadar before she headed back toward the bedroom. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Not even a full second after the bedroom door closed, Malik was saying, “what the hell is that? I thought you weren’t dating. I thought you weren’t having sex outside of marriage anymore. I thought you and here were going to remain friends? Isn’t that what you’ve been saying for the past six years? ‘You wouldn’t understand, Malik. She’s just my friend. I love her like she’s my friend. Men and women can be friends’?”

“Well,” Kadar sat on the thrift-store-coffee-table in front of the couch and set Sailor down on the floor in front of him. He picked at the long white fur that was caught on his nice dress pants and dropped it into the carpet. “She _is_ my best friend. I do love her. I’m not dating her. And I’m not having sex outside of marriage.” He waited the expected six seconds for Malik to understand what he had been told. While he did, he dug his fingers down into his pocket and pulled out his wedding band so that when he held it up, Malik’s whole face mutated into absolute shock.

“What?” he said.

“Well, she showed up six months ago with a wedding ring and a white dress and told me we were getting married.” There was no exaggeration at all in the words. He slid the ring on to his finger. “So we did, but we haven’t told anyone.”

“What?” Malik repeated.

“Well, Mom. Mom knows, and Aaron knows. Because he lives with Mom. It’s just we didn’t tell her brothers because I should have gone to talk to them before about my intentions.” He shrugged. “The ones I didn’t have. Because this was all her idea.” He rubbed his hand across the back of his neck while he waited for Malik to form a reaction. 

“You’re really married?” he said.

“Yes,” Kadar said. “But, I have to get married again. With her family there. So when that happens, will you be my best man?”

“Fuck you,” Malik snapped at him. He motioned at the ring on Kadar’s finger, caught between anger at being kept in the dark and congratulations grins pulling his face out of shape. “I can’t believe you,” he said, “you can’t just get married without telling someone.”

“Right,” Kadar said, “that’s not what you’re doing today at four.”

Malik just glared at him. “I told _you_.” But then he motioned to the ring and Kadar held out his hand so he could look at it. Considering Claudia’s love of sparkling jewelry and her need to make sure all of her adornments were noticeable, the plain gold band was a surprise. “Are you happy?”

“Yeah,” Kadar said. “I mean, it’s not ideal that we haven’t told anyone so it’s technically lying. She’s been living here for six months because I have to finish school this semester and she hates the carpets. But, Sailor finally stopped hissing at the dogs.”

Malik looked around, “where are the dogs?”

“Mom has them.” And it didn’t even take him a full second to remember that Altair and the rest of them were going to Mother’s house to get dressed for the wedding. The average person might see familiar pets and accept the story they were given about friendly unexpected visits but any member of Altair’s fucking family (except Altair, really) would look at Pecan and Whisky and instantly divine their true meaning. “Fuck,” Kadar whispered.

“Genius,” Malik said. Then he stood up. “I have to get dressed for this wedding or we’ll be late.”

“I’d say you could be late to your own wedding but, _you’re_ not the bride so you can’t.” He didn’t even look apologetic when Malik slapped him.

\--

son-of-no-one: but how is @sass-badger, going to move in that dress, much less actually play paintball? (13m ago)

Notyourbrother: @son-of-no-one, I think the important part is that the dress is ruined (10m ago)

Altair had not spent a great deal of his time evaluating Lamah on a scale of attractiveness. It was as distasteful a prospect to him as rating Mama Maria on such a scale might have been. However, in the wake of Maria’s lewd proclamations, Altair found himself unavoidably wondering if (absent present circumstances and the fact that Lamah wouldn’t waste her time on him) he would have slept with her. She was a beautiful woman, delicate and pretty in a way not so different from how precise Malik’s features were.

“Are you attempting to divine what your future children will look like?” Leonardo asked. He was an unexpected interruption of the plan. He had been meant to be at Kadar’s apartment until the wedding but Altair had arrived to find him sitting in the living room reminiscing with Lamah. “Or what Malik will age like?”

“Neither,” Altair said. He might have added that he was trying to figure out if he would have fucked her but it seemed crude out of context. Instead he looked at Leonardo’s carelessly casual outfit (his shirt did have buttons but also paint stains). “Where have you been for the past four months?” And only because it seemed accusatory without the follow-up, “Ezio told me you haven’t been answering him and Malik said it wasn’t unusual for you to disappear.”

“I consult with a number of agencies that are far above your security clearance,” Leonardo said. He shrugged. “Are you taking a honeymoon after this?”

“Uh,” Altair said. “we just got back from a trip so I couldn’t convince him to take another one. I have been trying to convince him to go to his high school reunion.”

“When’s that?”

“Tonight. It starts at seven in some conference hall in a hotel.” Altair was waiting for Lucy and Desmond to finish getting dressed. The logic of allowing them to go first was that Peyton would require two people to force her into a dress, tights and pretty shoes and it gave them the time to dress up in their nice clothes. Altair’s clothing was a relatively simple task in comparison. Maria was occupying the room that used to be Kadar’s to put on her presumably more elaborate dress. While Lamah had accepted that Maria and Altair would never have sex if left unattended in a room naked, she also didn’t want unmarried people naked in the same room if it could be avoided. 

“He’ll go if you want him to,” Leonardo said, “did he RSVP?”

“Yeah.”

“Then he’s going,” Leonardo patted him on the back. “You look green. You good?”

“Yeah,” he said in place of ‘I’m just trying to block out years’ of worthless, spiteful advice of people I no longer love, trust or respect to the same blind degree I did as a child who are rising from the grave or out of obscurity to yell at me about how stupid it is to marry anyone without taking the necessary precautions to keep them from profiting from marriage.’ Altair even managed to smile. He was saved from any further attempts to have a conversation by Lucy coming down the stairs with Peyton walking next to her. They were wearing matching dresses, pretty and pale colored: not quite white or blue or gray. 

“Your turn,” Lucy said. She stopped at the steps just behind Peyton to straighten her hair and the little girl turned halfway around to look up at her. “It was crooked,” Lucy said.

\--

> **Malik**
> 
> Is he still breathing?
> 
> Yes. Pacing too
> 
> Rapid pacing or slow pacing?
> 
> Swishing?
> 
> So he’s dressed?
> 
> Yes
> 
> Why are Claudia’s dogs here?
> 
> Because Claudia’s here.
> 
> Lucy told me she made an appointment with the realtor to go look at the house with you
> 
> Did you buy both houses?
> 
> Yes. But if the second house is no good it won’t be hard to sell
> 
> I’m here. Whenever he’s done swishing.

Desmond had been told about the backyard wedding to be staged at Lamah’s house but he hadn’t been asked about it before the choice was made. It was one of those few decisions that hadn’t required his input. The most he’d done was agree to be in the wedding. “You okay?”

“Yes,” Altair said when he reached the window at the back of the house, just before he turned around to walk back toward the door. His wedding dress was tailored to fit him (a strange request for the usual tailor, surely), snug to his chest and waist and belled out straight down to his knees. It swished back and forth when he walked (exaggerated by the way he walked to make it sway). 

“Malik’s here,” Desmond prompted.

“I’m almost ready,” Altair assured him.

“Anything I can do to help?” He tucked his phone back into his pocket and tried his best to look available and understanding. If Altair took note of it, it was only briefly in his path from window to door and back again. “I probably could help.”

“He’s just so _difficult_ ,” Altair said. “I mean it. We’ve been together for seven years and we’ve spent six of them arguing about something. Nothing can be decided that isn’t debated first, nothing can be compromised that isn’t defined. I have _actually_ had to go research topics because I wasn’t _well-informed_ enough to give an opinion. This man has made me read _encyclopedias_ just for the privilege of being told I’m wrong.” All of that would have sounded much more dreadful if Desmond hadn’t been there listening to the two of them ‘arguing’ about something, seeing how very much they both enjoyed it. Malik was a master at debate and Altair was brilliant at undermining arguments. They could go for hours, layering facts and opinions, supplying references and counterarguments. It was like dancing. “When we’re not arguing, we’re probably having sex. That’s what we do—that’s it. Argue and fuck. That’s not the basis for a relationship.”

Desmond sighed and caught Altair midway between door and window. “That’s not it,” he said. “Yes, the two of you are difficult. He made you read encyclopedias, you made him learn Italian. The two of you live and thrive on challenges. There’s nothing wrong with that. The foundation of your relationship is solid. I’ve seen it, when you need it he holds your hand. He protects you. This,” he motioned at the general area around them. “is good. It’s very good.”

“I can’t trust you,” Altair said with a half-grin, “if you let me change my mind now Lucy would never fuck you again.”

“There’s that too. She needs this to be romantically fulfilled. So go marry this guy.” But the other was true. “Ready?”

“Yeah,” Altair said. “Let’s go do this.”

\--

> **Edward, Federico, Ezio…**
> 
> Malik and I got married today. While we like all of you very much, we were adamantly opposed to the spectacle of a public wedding. Instead, we opted for a small wedding. However, since family is important, we will be inviting all of you assholes to his birthday party in July and you can bring wedding gifts then.

Altair had been to enough weddings in his childhood (and adulthood) to manage to feel a certain level of bored at his own. In those moments between standing with Maria (who was walking him down the aisle so to speak), watching Peyton ineffectually throw flower petals on the ground (and then stop to pick them up and hand them to people individually) and walking toward Malik who was trying very hard not to laugh at the tiny little girl that was still passing out petals to the small assembly of guests and the part of the wedding speech that asked him if he was sure he wanted to marry Malik, he might have zoned out completely.

Malik was holding his hand for part of it. And then he wasn’t, and then Peyton was giving him flowers and then she was holding Malik’s hand while looking up at him challengingly.

Pecan wandered over to lick Peyton and that made her squirm so Desmond picked her up and she protested about that briefly but was happy to throw flower petals at Altair’s head. Whisky was overly infatuated with London so he trotted over to try to entice her to leave Maria’s lap and come play with him. London (resplendent in a fancy bow) was caught between haughty disinterest and keen interest. 

About the time Peyton was picking flower petals back out of his hair and Altair was staring at Kadar trying to get Pecan to stop eating the ones on the ground and come back over to sit down, Malik’s hand came up to pull his face back so he was looking at his very soon-to-be-husband. 

“I know you’re nervous,” Malik said. “I know you said this would be hard for you. But I need you here.”

The officiant (not a priest) was looking back and forth between them with some concern. He looked as if he were going to ask if they were certain but did not. Altair nodded and Malik held his hand again. 

\--

> **Federico**
> 
> I find it suspicious that my sister was invited to a private wedding but I was not.
> 
> She invited herself
> 
> She would. She was born without manners.
> 
> Congratulations, from everyone here.
> 
> Two congratulations from Vittoria. She insisted.

Malik had only had a moment to see his Mother between arriving and the onset of the wedding. The hurry was entirely based on the officiant’s tight schedule (and the food that was prepared to eat). She had grasped his face in her hands and kissed his forehead before she sent him out to marry this stupid man that wore a tea-length-white-dress to their wedding. This stupid man that had a five-o-clock shadow on his face making kissing him scratching and rough but he’d shaved his legs in the shower that morning (hungover from the night before). The stupid man that was staring at dogs and not even looking at him for most of the ceremony (which was largely irrelevant to Malik as well, since he would have been just as happy to sign his name on a sheet of paper and consider it all finished).

Altair kissed him like they were first-date-lovers, a perfect set of strangers and Malik curled a hand around his neck and pulled him in roughly to kiss him _properly_. The younger, far less conservative side of the wedding audience howled with approval. Altair’s whole face turned red at the sound. Embarrassment wasn’t something he felt very often or to any significant degree but he had managed to develop a sense of it that was tied directly to how close to Malik’s Mother he was standing.

The aftermath of the kiss was a blur. Everyone wanted a picture of them. There were camera flashes, and poses and congratulations. The officiant gave them a framed certificate and wished them the best. 

London finally jumped to freedom to play with Whisky. 

At the end of the blur of motion, Malik ended up holding Peyton while she tucked flower petals into his suit jacket pocket. His Mother came back to smile at him. Altair had been called to help catch the dogs before they crashed into the vegetable garden. Along with Kadar and Claudia (easily the most beautifully dressed person at the wedding) were chasing the animals around the yard shouting in a variety of languages and tones to interrupt their play.

“This probably wasn’t the wedding you thought I’d have when I was born,” he said. Peyton shifted her attention from putting the petals into his pocket to braiding them into his hair. There was just enough for her to layer them in and his hair was just thick enough to hold them in place. 

“No,” Mother agreed. Her own wedding had been a much more organized affair, hosted in a nice venue with a small collection of friends and family. Everything had been lovely and considerate. (Except for the way Aaron kissed her as if he had been dying to do it for years.) “It suits you.” 

“I heard Kadar got married too.”

“Yes. Without telling anyone. He said there would have to be a second wedding so all the family could attend.” She made a frown at that, “now I have to go and sit at a wedding full of his new cousins.” Mother’s disapproval of the Auditore cousins (and Edward, in general) was so complete it was almost comical. While she would be the first to admit that she didn’t know anything about them to make her disapproval a personal thing, she knew enough about them that she had purposefully kept away from the noise and spectacle. “This suits you too,” she said as she touched Peyton’s back. 

The little girl only spared his Mother a small glance.

“Maybe,” Malik said. “Thank you for letting us get married here.”

“Of course,” Mother said. “If you bring everyone inside, there is food.”

And when the food was announced, the whole assembly moved like a herd, all at once stampeding toward the promise of a meal.

\--

> **Edward**
> 
> I am more offended you kept this a secret than I am at being called an asshole.
> 
> Well asshole is your middle name
> 
> Edward Asshole Kenway.
> 
> That’s not far off from the truth.
> 
> Congratulations

The party broke down by degrees. First it was Claudia and Kadar excusing themselves to get the overly excitable dogs out of everyone’s way. Pecan and Whisky had gorged themselves on delicious food, weaving in and out of the clumps of people that were happy enough to pass scraps to the dogs’ open mouths. Since they were going, Leonardo hugged Malik and kissed his cheek and followed after them to sleep on Kadar’s couch for the night. 

Desmond and Lucy were turned down on their offer to help clean up and sent away with enough leftovers to feed them for the night. Peyton hugged everyone and wished them a happy wedding day. It was only at the door when she realized she was leaving without her flower petals that she had a fit.

Altair found himself in the kitchen, scraping food off dishes and stacking plates by the sink. Malik had told him once (almost six years ago, most likely) that offering to help clean up was good but cleaning up without asking would get him even more brownie points. It had become a steady habit in six years. So second-nature to him that he didn’t even hear when Lamah came back in from seeing people off. 

Her hand was always cool against his arm; her touch always the most hesitant in a crowd. But her smile wasn’t forced anymore. She said, “this is your wedding,” to him much the same she always admonished him for cleaning while he was a guest in her kitchen.

“I know,” Altair said. “I think Malik and Maria are still talking.” The backdoor was open enough to hear the soft sound of their voices. It was her offer that had thrown them into a two year conversation about whether or not they were going to have children. The onset of the conversation had been far simpler than the tangled mess that it had evolved into. 

“Ah,” Lamah said. She turned the hot water on and filled her sink with water and bubbles. They didn’t speak while they waited. 

Altair scraped out the pots and stacked the whole mess of them on the counter next to the sink. When he was done he leaned against the counter, facing out toward the dining room. “Where’s Aaron?”

“In our room,” Lamah said. “He is not used to so many people yet. It wears him out.” 

Then Altair sighed. “Did Malik ask you about having children?”

“Today?” (and Altair nodded), “No. He has asked me before. I told him that I would listen to him if he needed to speak but that he had to make this choice by himself.” She filled the sink with dishes and found her sponge on the little rack over the sink. “How do you feel about it?”

He hadn’t meant to laugh but he did anyway. His two hands curled around the back of his neck and he shrugged. The fact that he was wearing a wedding dress as an echo of a joke he’d made years ago left him wondering if he’d ever attain the maturity required to have a child. “When I was younger, I thought I would never have kids. I never wanted to bring kids into the disaster that was our family. It’s different now. Things have settled down.” 

Lamah looked over at him, eyebrows up, a curious look of _understatement_ to punctuate the words. They hadn’t been such good friends six years ago when Altair had thrown his lot in with the Auditore children when they staged a hostile takeover of their parents’ empire. But Malik had all but dumped him into her lap the next year when Giovanni died. “There are no perfect families. I would wager that you would have said it would be irresponsible for Desmond to have a child.”

“I did say that.” He’d said it more than once in private conversations while all of them, altogether, fretted over how Desmond would react to his child and the responsibility of caring for her. (Maybe it had been a relief to them, more than it should have been, when Peyton had been born a girl. As Federico said, _he couldn’t have tolerated a son_.) “I want children. I want more than one. I grew up alone—I mean, not alone. I had my family, but as much trouble as the Auditore brothers are, they have always been a united force.”

“The trouble is,” Lamah said. She looked significantly at the rinsing sink and how he was not there rinsing or drying the dishes. He reached over to pull the towel off the stove and then went to take his place. She continued, “that a choice that is usually much less deliberate has been given to you to worry and argue over. If my son were a daughter, or if you were truly a bride, I imagine you would have had a child by now. You wouldn’t have had the time to create such worry.” 

“Exactly,” Altair said. 

The conversation might have gone longer if not for Malik coming into the kitchen. He looked amused (always amused) to find Altair drying dishes. His nice suit was disheveled, his tie pulled lopse and the top buttons of his shirt opened. “If you want to go to this reunion, we need to go to the hotel so you can change.”

“You can marry me in a dress but you can’t introduce me in one?” Altair countered.

Malik cocked up an eyebrow. “If you want to wear it, that’s fine.”

“I promised Lucy I wouldn’t take it off until bedtime.” What he meant was, ‘I promised Lucy we’d fuck while I wore this’ and Malik knew it because he’d been there but Lamah made a soft snorting noise behind them because she was probably aware of what he meant. “Do you mind if I go?” Altair asked. He didn’t like leaving the dishes half-finished.

Maria followed Malik in. “You go, I’ll finish. Do you mind if I help you?” 

Lamah motioned graciously at her sink. Altair handed the towel over to Maria who blew him a kiss and bumped him out of the way with her hip. “Enjoy your night,” Lamah said. “Behave yourselves.”

\--

son-of-no-one: just having a drink with my hot new husband at his high school reunion (30m ago)

To say the reunion was _boring_ was a gross understatement. Malik had been bored from the moment they hit the door. Of course, walking into the dolled-up conference room with Altair wearing his wedding dress had caused enough uproar that the first thirty minutes they were there had involved greeting strangers wearing nametags pretending to remember them.

“So you know none of these people?” Altair said sideways too him. The reunion had elected not to serve alcoholic beverages. Therefore they were drinking soft drinks out of clear cups, watching the old flames and high school best friends milling around on the dance floor while some DJ attempted to entice people into dancing. “I finished high school at sixteen and I know more people from my graduating class.”

“Um,” Malik looked around. “Well I had sex with that guy.” He pointed across the room to where Alex was chatting up one of the other former high school jocks. His flirting was projected loudly throughout the whole room through his body language. Ten years had been good to Alex, given him more muscle to his body and whatever he’d gone on to do had given him a decent tan and a nice suit. 

“Well, now we have to go say hello.” Altair stood up before Malik could tell him not to. For a minute, he considered letting Altair sway his way across the floor and introduce himself, and then he rolled his eyes and got up to follow him. He caught up just in time.

Alex looked at them, confused about Altair in a wedding dress (as most of them were) and then at Malik with a familiar smile. “Malik,” he said and hugged him. They had never been friends but sex partners, still he hugged him with real affection. “It’s been years. How have you been?” Alex looked sideways at Altair with an implied ‘and who is this?’

“Good,” Malik said. “This is my husband,” which would take a few more years of getting used to. He motioned to Altair who stuck his hand out with his most pointed-and-physically violent smile. “Altair.”

“Oh,” Alex said. “Just get married?” He shook Altair’s hand with an appropriate amount of caution.

“About four hours ago,” Altair said. 

“Lose a bet?” Alex asked. He meant it to be a light-hearted and jovial comment but both he and the man standing next to him looked frightened to hear the answer.

“Not exactly. Just fulfilling a promise,” Altair looked like he was about to launch into an explanation of the slow development of Malik so-called ‘crossdressing fetish’ and that was why Malik abruptly cut in to say: 

“We were just leaving but we wanted to say hello.” Which wasn’t true. Altair didn’t want to say hello, he wanted to intimidate anyone he found that may have seen Malik naked. While his quest was relatively achievable, it was still somewhat obnoxious. 

“Hi,” Altair said before Malik pulled him away by the elbow.

“Why don’t you just beat your hands on your chest?” Malik asked.

Altair laughed. “Well I would but I didn’t want to embarrass you.” He let himself be pulled until they were outside the conference room again. Malik pulled his nametag off and threw it into the trash receptacle and Altair pulled him up against his body and kissed him. “Can we go fuck now?”

“Yes,” Malik said, “first one to the room gets top.” 

\--

> **Kadar**
> 
> What time is breakfast?
> 
> Between ten and eleven, or whenever the newlyweds emerge
> 
> There’s a bet they won’t show until after noon
> 
> Malik likes breakfast, he’ll be there by eleven.

Desmond was only awake because there was a little gym on the bottom floor of the hotel. He had meant to sneak out and go work out for a half an hour before Lucy and the baby woke up. But Peyton’s lullabies had turned themselves off halfway through the night and Lucy always woke up (at least a little) whenever he got out of bed. 

Lucy took Peyton to the pool while he went to work out and the three of them met in the small dining room for the continental breakfast that seemed to be mostly prepackaged muffins and watered down oatmeal.

“She was dog-paddling in the pool,” Lucy said when he joined them. Peyton smiled with muffin goo between her teeth. “Without holding on to me.”

Desmond set his cup of coffee on the table and leaned over to kiss Peyton on her damp hair. “That’s amazing,” he told her. While his praise was never as enthusiastic as Lucy’s, Peyton seemed just as pleased to receive it. She broke off part of her muffin and handed it to him. “Thank you,” he said.

“So, can we go back to the room and watch cartoons for a while?” Lucy yawned the question and smiled at Peyton when the little girl handed her another piece of the muffin. While Desmond could eat basically anything (except food that had been obviously chewed) that Peyton gave him. Lucy couldn’t pretend to eat the offerings that had been drooled on by their precious child. Instead she gathered them on a plate and threw them away later. 

“I can take her for a while if you want to sleep.”

“That sounds perfect,” Lucy said. “But if you find yourself in a store, don’t buy her anything except shoes. We need shoes. That’s it.”

Desmond nodded (but he knew, like Lucy knew, like Peyton knew, that he wasn’t likely to stick to the resolution. 

\--

> **Maria**
> 
> I want a child, but I want to be married first
> 
> Altair is convinced you are our best option as a surrogate since you offered
> 
> I could extend my offer by two years.
> 
> If you are serious, then I think the answer would be yes
> 
> I do not make offers I am not serious about. 
> 
> I am very curious about what sort of babies we would make, the three of us.
> 
> I am also very hungry. Will you be ready for breakfast soon?
> 
> In a few minutes

Altair was still snoozing, not even really sleeping, when Malik got back from taking a shower. He had kicked the blanket off (as he usually did when he was trying to wake up) but not committed to getting up. Malik got back into bed, moved to lay behind him. He kissed the back of Altair’s left shoulder, just beyond the beak of the largest finch tattooed there. The full color of the tattoos had finally been finished and the small flock of the little birds were bright spots all across the back of Altair’s shoulders. 

“Good morning,” Altair mumbled at him. He rolled half onto his back to kiss Malik back. “What time is it?” He wormed his arm under Malik’s side to stroke a hand down his back and made a disappointed scowl to find him wearing a shirt. “What if I wasn’t ready?”

“We have an appointment,” Malik said. He kissed Altair again because he was lazy and warm and easy to kiss. “So you have to get up.”

Altair’s hand was in his hair, sliding easily between the wet strands to hold him in place. In fact, the whole lazy shift of Altair’s body all but demanded that Malik put a leg across him. And since he was there, it was nearly impossible to keep from tracing Altair’s chest straight to the center and running his finger down his fucking ridiculous abs. Since they were there, and since Altair’s hands were under his shirt, Malik kissed his jaw and his throat. 

“Well I’m up now,” Altair mumbled just before he flipped them over. He settled nice-and-easy between Malik’s legs. There were still sleep lines over his body, pink and creased. Malik bent his legs and put his heels against the bed. “Don’t make that face. I’ll be quick. You won’t even notice.”

“I believe neither of those statements.” He rested his hand on Altair’s hand, thumed across the little crown (and Maria’s name beneath it) above his left elbow. He considered their options, to have sex now and be late to breakfast (and therefore late for the rest of the day) or to forego it and have to spend the whole day mutually aware they could have had sex. “If I let you put your dick in me, you cannot ‘be quick’ about it.”

Altair’s smile wasn’t even that worried, instead he kissed Malik with gleeful victory. Then Altair sat back to pull at the button of Malik’s pants without waiting for anymore stipulations. And so Malik leaned to the side to grab his phone off the table by the bed so he could let everyone know they were going to be somewhat later than previous predicted.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Malik reads fanfiction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4080658) by [Amarytha](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amarytha/pseuds/Amarytha)
  * [Prom Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4847759) by [Dessoestma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dessoestma/pseuds/Dessoestma)




End file.
